


On the Mend

by fractualized



Series: Free John Doe [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Telltale Series (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Feelings, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Slow Burn, With special guest Jervis Tetch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-04-25 23:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 56,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14389023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractualized/pseuds/fractualized
Summary: Over a year since the departure of the Agency, Bruce and John are still caught up in the aftermath. Bruce prioritizes supporting John's care in Arkham, but the success of John's treatment gets an unexpected test run outside the asylum walls. (Post game, vigilante ending.)





	1. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, here we go! This story continues from the Vigilante storyline, with the final choices of telling John that OF COURSE he is Bruce's friend and letting poor Alfred go because Bruce is like super invested in this crime-fighting thing. Also, much of the set-up is derived from the Gotham Media Feed.
> 
> This is going to be kind of a slow burn when it comes to batjokes. The ideas spinning in my head have split into two stories, and this one is more about getting John where he needs to be. The juce is there, though.

"Good evening, and welcome to Gotham Beat." As always, the woman on screen looked at the camera with authoritative poise and perfectly coiffed red hair. "I'm Summer Gleeson."

The Agency logo appeared in a graphic to her right. "The unfolding of the Agency scandal continues its long trajectory, the endpoint still unknown as the public continues to debate the revelations now fourteen months after the organization's departure from the city. Tonight we focus on John Doe, patient at Arkham Asylum and member of the terrorist group known as the Pact. His arrest was the denouement of the Agency's time in Gotham.

"In initial reports, Doe was present on Gotham Bridge as former psychiatrist Harleen Quinzel threatened to set off multiple bombs. He was responsible for disarming Quinzel, only to inexplicably set off the bombs himself. Doe vanished for two weeks, then resurfaced for one chaotic night using the alias 'Joker.' After provoking the Agency into a confrontation in East End, he escaped and set off explosives that destroyed GCPD headquarters, then abducted Agency Director Amanda Waller. Eight people were killed during pursuit, and Doe was later discovered with accomplices at Ace Chemicals' defunct main plant, where he was brought down by the Batman. Director Waller was recovered, but the Agency disclosed that Doe was responsible for six agent casualties. Again, this was as initially reported.

"Six weeks after the Agency's departure from the city, several news outlets received video clips recorded during Director Waller's abduction. These clips-- which remain available in full on our website-- showed the Director confessing to multiple ethical lapses, primarily that she spread false information to her operatives that Doe was responsible for the Riddler's death.

"That and other insinuations in the recordings prompted a surge of investigative reporting and a series of leaks that complicated the story allowed to circulate by the Agency. The starkest revelation: the confrontation on the Gotham Bridge was not just a bomb threat, but a threat to unleash a biological weapon called 'the Lotus virus' on the city-- and it was Doe who prevented the virus's release. One leak reported that Doe, who is again a patient at Arkham Asylum, absconded with the virus because he was threatened by none other than Director Waller.

"At the time of the leak, we reached out to Bruce Wayne for confirmation of this account. Wayne's bizarre presence on the bridge was known early on, but the reveal that the Agency had engaged the billionaire in undercover work was still one of the big shocks in this saga. On last night's broadcast, we reviewed the few confirmed details of his involvement, which included this statement from his lawyers."

The statement appeared on screen alongside a black and white graphic of a somber Wayne. Summer read it aloud: "'Mr. Wayne willingly cooperated with the Agency in the interests of public safety. He cannot comment further on Agency activities due to their secretive and sensitive nature. However, Mr. Wayne considers it in the public interest to know that Mr. Doe did prevent Dr. Quinzel from releasing a lethal virus on the population. There will be no other statements on this subject.' Wayne has followed through on his public silence.

"Counsel secured for Mr. Doe, however, has been outspoken over the past several months as she balances Doe's admitted crimes with a number of suits against the city. Joanne Dumfree represents Mr. Doe and the grassroots Gotham Mental Health Alliance, which wants to shine light on how-- they say-- our health care system put the city in grave danger. We have Ms. Dumfree here with us tonight via satellite."

The screen switched to two talking heads. On the left was a woman in her late twenties, her brown hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and her cool gaze behind simple black frames. The man on the right was about twenty years her senior. His thinning hair and navy blue suit were very neatly cut. "And also remotely, from the Gotham Department of Public Health, we have Health Commissioner Louis Fahrenhold."

Summer glanced at notes on her desk. "Mr. Fahrenhold, the GMHA has accused city authorities of downplaying the realities of John Doe's psychological condition so they can abdicate any responsibility for the events that occurred."

Fahrenhold replied dispassionately. "Summer, I sorely wish there was a way to foresee Mr. Doe's actions, but once again, the facts are that all policies and procedures for his release were followed."

"Really?" Dumfree said. "That's the road you're going to take?"

Summer chimed in. "Exposés in the Gotham Gazette and the Mercy Times map out considerable holes in Gotham's mental health services. Those stories lend a lot of credence to the GMHA's complaints."

"First of all," Fahrenhold said, "I think it's important that you remind viewers that the founders of the GMHA include known accomplices of John Doe."

"Oh, absolutely," Dumfree replied, unfazed. "Those accomplices and the other founders were also failed by the so-called services that the Health Department has half-assed for decades. Grassroots organizations tend to be started by those who experience governmental neglect. These citizens know through experience that their concerns for Mr. Doe's rights are legitimate and that the City is happy to ignore any culpability for the deaths of fourteen people."

"Ms. Dumfree," Fahrenhold snapped, "the vast majority of people with mental illness do not commit murder."

"Is that the saving grace to you? 'We can't be doing that badly since we don't have a bunch of murderers on the loose!' Is there a committee that sets the bar that low?"

"I conceded that there are improvements to be made, and resources have been dedicated to making them, but the fact remains that the City is not responsible for Mr. Doe's actions."

"Let's start with Dr. Quinzel. She was entrusted by your Department with the care of hundreds of patients at both Blackgate Penintentiary and Arkham Asylum, where she helped treat John Doe. This person not only abruptly turned to a criminal life, but on Mr. Doe's release she lured him into living with a crew of terrorists in an abandoned subway station, for God's sake. During the Agency debacle, she was responsible for a slew of injuries and fatalities, and that was before she tried to poison whole city. Are you telling me such a person showed no warning signs while she was in the employ of the city? Are we supposed to believe she didn't groom Mr. Doe?"

"We have reviewed her performance records," Fahrenhold said, adjusting his tie, "and they were impeccable--"

"Impeccable!" Dumfree's laugh sputtered. "Oh, well, I suppose we should ignore the stories from her former colleagues about her 'professional' behavior. Of course, you do have that staffing shortage to deal with. You recall, there was no follow-up after the Cathedral Hill Halfway House contacted the social worker assigned to Mr. Doe's case about his no-show. The worker later told investigators that he was, quote, 'so overloaded that some of them have to slip through the cracks.' Though maybe Dr. Quinzel helped Mr. Doe maintain his outpatient treatment plan. Would that make for another impeccable record?"

Fahrenhold's forehead was starting to shine with sweat. "That individual has been disciplined, and--"

"And the problem won't be solved. Tell me, what happened to all the funding for the Arkham replacement project? The Wayne Foundation pulled out after the revelations about Thomas Wayne, of course, but what about the city-pledged funds? Where is that money, Mr. Fahrenhold? Conveniently rerouted during the uproar?"

"M-my understanding is that budgetary concerns--"

"Yes, I'm sure we'll find some overblown line items in the budget."

"Summer," Fahrenhold said tightly, "Ms. Dumfree's fire is very entertaining for television, but I won't let her pass by her personal association with vigilantes."

Dumfree's eyes flashed with disdain. "I'll be clear on this, sir. I have never avoided my father's association with Mr. Doe during his activities as 'the Joker.' Francis Dumfree saw as much as anyone that our officials allowed the Agency to run roughshod over Gothamites' civil liberties during their investigations. Unfortunately, that made him susceptible to the urge to take matters into his own hands and enable Mr. Doe's worst impulses. My father has served the time deemed appropriate by the court and is dutifully following through on his community service. He has also spoken out on how he made the wrong choices. Unlike you, Mr. Fahrenhold, he believes in taking responsibility."

Fahrenhold sputtered, but Dumfree barrelled on. "The City had responsibility for Mr. Doe's mental health starting when he became a ward of the state at the estimated age of fourteen. Estimated, Mr. Fahrenhold, because of his retrograde amnesia and the inability of the state to tie any records to him or identify any family."

"His background is very unfortunate," Fahrenhold managed, "but that does not excuse murder."

"It does not," she agreed, "and that is not what the GMHA is saying. What we want is assurance that how Mr. Doe is treated, both in Arkham and in the judicial system, is based on a realistic assessment of his cognizance and not on the desire of city officials to take no blame for their systems."

Summer spoke up. "Are you referencing the recent comments by Councilman Hartford that he favors the electric chair over electroshock?"

"I absolutely do not condone the Councilman's statements," Fahrenhold said briskly.

"The Councilman is not the only official to make such remarks," Dumfree said, "as they would rather keep the focus on my client rather than their own failure to stand up for their citizens. Why not? It's easier to push a mentally ill man into the court of public opinion than it is to face it yourself."

Fahrenhold put a hand to his chest. "Public opinion has no bearing on the treatment of Mr. Doe. The court decided it was best for him to return to Arkham, and he continues to receive appropriate care. You have not filed any malpractice complaints on his behalf."

"That is true, but officials inciting public pressure has absolutely affected my client. The Arkham Board of Trustees has preemptively suggested that John Doe could become a permanent resident, despite the successes in his treatment over the past year."

Fahrenhold frowned. "I... have not seen a report on this. The role of the trustees is not to determine the length of a patient's stay."

"Your lack of oversight has met my expectations, Mr. Fahrenhold," Dumfree said. "Lucky for you and the Board, nothing sustains power like a preponderance of audacity and a lack of shame."

"W-well," Summer broke in, "I'm afraid we're out of time. Thank you, Mr. Fahr..." He ripped off his microphone and disappeared from his box. "Fahrenhold. And you as well, Ms. Dumfree."

"My pleasure."

Watching from the Batcave, Tiffany let out a breath and tried to shake off the tension in her shoulders. She turned away from the monitor and back to the dismantled drone on the table, but as she reached for the toolbox the pink scar from her knuckles to her wrist glared at her.

"I've got an opinion for you," she muttered, flipping her hand to show the complementary scar on her palm. She looked up, across the table, across the cave, to the batsuit on display in the arsenal. "Not that you wanna hear it."

Summer's voice broke through her train of thought. "... footage of Doe shoplifting several items from a party supply store provided an incriminating but solid alibi. After the break, we'll revisit in more detail the still unsolved murder of the Riddler."

"Computer," Tiffany said, "switch media feed to streaming music."

* * *

The massive chandelier recently installed in the Dini Ballroom, with its gold plating, crystal fixtures, and internal wiring, had to weigh at least a few tons. To Bruce's eye, the polished chain that suspended it from the domed ceiling didn't look as thick as it should, but that just meant the steel must have been of a high grade. It had better be, if the Society for Public Arts didn't want to abruptly end their charity gala with a twisted metal skeleton in the middle of the marble floor and a couple hundred patrons screaming from glittering shrapnel.

Bruce knew the thought was morbid even if he was simultaneously running through the best method of rescue each time his fellow philanthropists wandered across the center of the room. When he arrived, it had only taken fifteen minutes to make his round of greetings before he took up a lone post underneath a tasseled tapestry. By now he typically spent most of his time at charity events pretending to sip a martini while people-watching. If he didn't run through hypothetical disasters, all he would see were furtive glances in his direction.

Just when Gothamites seemed to accept Bruce Wayne wasn't necessarily following in his criminal father's footsteps and that the GCPD confirmed he'd been drugged when he attacked Oswald Cobblepot, Bruce had to throw them for another loop. Why did he _really_ work with that shadowy Agency? Maybe there was dirt to be had on him after all. And if he was helping to stop the Pact, why did he visit that lunatic in Arkham?

It was important to show support for a good cause-- and yes, to stubbornly refuse to be chased away by innuendo-- but after the past year, he was leaning toward responding to these invites with only a check and being done with it.

On cue, Cassandra Ellington emerged from the crowd and strode toward him with her arms wide, showing off the authentic furs draped over her shoulders. Bruce could have sworn she'd attended the Humane Society ball a couple months ago. "Bruce, dearie, I'm so glad you came!" she cooed, laying her manicured hands on his shoulders and air-kissing his cheeks. "You've been such a ghost." She studied his face as if pinpointing where to make the first incision to extract the gossip.

Bruce didn't have the energy to avoid the subject. "Haven't you heard?" he said dryly. "They're going to throw me back in Arkham any day now."

"Oh, ignore the rags, dearie. You know they amp up any little old thing." She took a champagne glass from a passing server's tray and observed him over it. "I'm sure the truth is dreadfully boring."

Bruce wasn't sure which was worse: hearing people blithely declare that John should just be put down like a rabid animal, or having them treat the saga in the news like a season of reality TV. Of course, both amounted to the same thing: dismissing John as a villain who could be easily forgotten. No one knew him, knew the string of choices that brought the whole situation to that point in Ace Chemicals, where John suddenly found himself with no solid anchor and...

Coldly, Bruce replied, "Yes, I wouldn't want to bother you with it."

Cassandra pouted, taking a sip of her drink, but she stood her ground as she considered her next tactic. Thankfully, a hand fell on Bruce's shoulder, and he turned to find Regina.

"Ah, Bruce, I found you," she said. She gestured across the room. "May I introduce you to someone?"

"Sure. Excuse me, Cassandra." As Regina linked their arms and led him away, he asked, "Who is it?"

"No one," she said with a smile that quickly smoothed into a solemn line, "but I did want to run something by you."

Maybe being cornered by Cassandra wasn't so bad after all. 

When Regina had seen footage of Harley and John in the news after John's arrest, she of course recognized them from the encounter in the elevator, to say nothing of the reports of Bruce showing up at a bomb threat negotiation. She ordered security to analyze Wayne Tower surveillance, and they managed to recover the footage of Harley and John from backups that Alfred had missed. She came to Bruce and demanded answers. It was only her relationship with his family that kept her from going to the Board first.

Bruce had apologized again for her encounter with his "fashion consultants," but he didn't disclose much more to her than he had to the GCPD or the press. He told her that he never wanted to get anyone else involved in his undercover work, that he was supposed to come in alone to get the EMP. (The recovered footage showed John carrying it; luckily the phalanx key was out of sight in Harley's jacket.) He had to play it desperate and naive to explain the theft, saying that the Agency convinced him the benefits outweighed the risks, and that after what his father had done, he wanted to do what he could to protect the city. It wasn't that removed from the truth.

Regina had let him have it, for getting himself involved in such dangerous business and for allowing himself to be persuaded that letting any WayneTech into criminal hands was acceptable. She could hardly see how this debacle would help his family's reputation. And he would have to come with her to explain this to the Board; she couldn't keep this from them, especially when one of their employees had been injured.

Talking to the Board had not been an enjoyable experience, and they discussed replacing him once again. But after their error with Oswald Cobblepot, current resident of Blackgate, they were disinclined to risk more bad PR. They settled on a six-month suspension and an agreement that no one would comment to the media. They would let this fiasco pass.

That became harder when the video clips were released. Bruce had known that Lauren Grimaldi filmed John's "interrogation" of Waller, but the Agency had collected all of his accomplices. Bruce hadn't been able to question Lauren yet, since she'd been given a more severe sentence than Frank Dumfree for participating in the kidnapping, so the best he could figure was that her camera had a retro design but still had all the modern features. The video could have been uploaded to the cloud, and then someone else who had access and was sympathetic to John edited the footage down to the parts that most incriminated Waller. Not that it helped John, seen ranting with his knife throughout.

And that hadn't helped Bruce with the Board as gossip spread about his regular visits to Arkham. He used diplomatic terms to tell them to mind their own business and to speak to his lawyers if they decided his personal relationships meant altering their previous deal.

Maybe they finally decided just that, Bruce thought as he and Regina moved behind a pillar close to the corner of the room, out of sight of most of the chattering patrons. "Has the Board decided yet that I'm far more trouble than dealing with my lawyers would be?" he asked.

"At this point, I think we're all just waiting for the company association with the events to fade in the public consciousness," she said.

"The company is not associated. It's me. I made that clear."

Her smile came back lopsided. "You know most people don't really accept that distinction. And I understand you got to know this Mr. Doe before he... his episode, but that chatter doesn't help things."

They fell into an uneasy silence. They'd already talked about John, too. She'd tried to convince Bruce to stop his visits, at least for a while, just like how she'd tried to convince him to let Oswald's interim appointment play out. In less emotional moments, Bruce knew that protecting the company was her job. By the end of the actual conversation, he found himself screaming at her.

_"You don't know John, and you don't know anything about what happened! You just get to sit in your cushy office and tell people to- to carve out the things that actually goddamn matter to them!"_

He'd apologized the next day, but expected she'd never want to speak to him again and would let the Board move against him. She did neither of those things, but there was a stiltedness in their interactions over the following months.

So it was not much of a surprise when she said now, "With everything going on, I wanted you to know that I've been thinking about retirement."

"I see."

"Not immediately, but by the end of next year at the latest. I think it's time. This position has always had its complications, but keeping up is starting to take a toll. Plus Robert is getting ready to hand over the practice to Stephen."

"Of course," Bruce said, trying to be more gracious than he felt. "You both deserve the time together."

Her satchel buzzed, and she apologized. "That's probably Robert now. The dog has been sick so he stayed home with her tonight. I'll be right back."

She hurried onto a nearby veranda to take the call. Bruce watched her and cycled through the current Board members in his mind. He assessed which one would be least likely to oust him if made Chairperson. All were poor candidates.

Bruce had always had just a few close allies, which made the constant struggle to keep them all the more difficult. It was hard to believe that at this point he was down to a twenty-one-year-old woman who holed up in the Batcave much more often than he should let her. Tiffany had agreed to work for her redemption, but given everything that had happened, he often wondered when the strain of the mission would start to erode her dedication.

For a little while, Selina had enjoyed her freedom in Gotham with no incidents (that Bruce was aware of) after Waller followed through on the promise to let her go. But when the media got wind that there was more to the Agency story, she said Gotham was too "hot" and slinked away until the fervor died down. He couldn't say he blamed her.

Avesta was finished with the Agency, and the Agency with her. Bruce had hoped to find her a place at Wayne Enterprises, but the Board was not about to take his recommendation. She was unable to find a field position at other law enforcement agencies thanks to Waller, but she managed to land a professorship in criminology at Gotham University. She emailed Bruce consistently, and he had met her for drinks a couple times, but she dedicated most of her time to her students. She was already due to receive a faculty recognition award.

As one of the few Gotham officials to stand up to the Agency, Gordon reclaimed his position as commissioner with the support of not just the GCPD but the public. His relationship with Batman was back to normal, but his regard for Bruce Wayne remained diminished. He understood that Bruce had put himself at risk to help the Agency bring down terrorists, but Bruce's continued lack of candor about what exactly happened and his consistent visits to Arkham made him look suspect. Gordon's work with Batman was the most important thing, but the distrust still stung.

Worst of all, Alfred was gone. It seemed like ages ago that on a night like this, he would have laid out Bruce's suit and needled him for his lack of enthusiasm. "If you pretend to have fun, you might have some by accident." Nowadays, a beeping alarm on Bruce's phone reminded him of his civilian obligations.

At least once a month, a handwritten letter arrived from either Alfred's new home in London or one of the sunny places he must have imagined from the chill of the cave. Bruce did write back, but not nearly as often. Even if he risked alluding to his activities as Batman in writing, why would Alfred want to hear about all the reasons he'd left? Batman was who Bruce was; there was little else in his life to discuss.

Alfred did call once at Christmas, and when Bruce heard his voice he felt a thrill that locked up his chest and made it hard to speak at first. Alfred checked that he was doing well (which Bruce took as code for "are you retaining all limbs?") and asked how Tiffany was doing at the company. But they still did not discuss the mission. 

Part of Bruce wanted to be bitter, wanted to insist that Alfred didn't understand, but then he would remember the tremor in Alfred's hand. Alfred understood just fine.

And then there was John.

Was ally the word for someone Bruce had helped lock away? And when all the reasons why were tied up with his own failings? Over and over again, he'd tried to pinpoint the moment when he could have prevented...

_"I believed in you, Batman, like I never believed in anything... and it was all a lie!"_

_He had never seen a knife move so fast, hadn't expected John's dark side to explode with such viciousness. A blade drove up a man's chin out of his mouth, slashed across a woman's throat, stabbed into another man's chest, all in a matter of seconds to a score of frenzied laughter._

_Bruce's best intentions couldn't elucidate for John that line between right and wrong, because it had been blurrier than Bruce could admit to himself, because Bruce was a fool. He couldn't see just how badly John needed to cling to a tangible vision of justice, like the promising glint of a knife. And now people were dead, and John's mouth was stained with their blood._

Bruce had seen plenty of casual death amongst the Pact, but the glee that overcame John disturbed his sleep for weeks. Yet when he first visited John a week after his readmittance to Arkham, he could imagine "the Joker" had been a different person, a vanquished nightmare.

* * *

The black face paint and blood spatter were long cleaned from John's face, his hair rested in its natural waves, and he was back in the standard Arkham uniform. And Bruce would have done anything to just forget that awful night, especially when John looked at him through the hatch in the door and smiled bright and excited, not pained and hysterical.

Bruce asked after John's right hand, which was enclosed in a mass of bandages that spared just his fingertips. With a shrug, John said it was fine and started rambling, _oh wow, Bruce, you're really here, I can't believe it,_ and Bruce couldn't bring himself to ask anything else about That Night. He focused on the present and John was eager to tell him. Arkham was fine, or as fine as Arkham could be. It was almost like he never left. Even Dr. Leland was assigned to him again.

They talked for only fifteen minutes, because John wasn't supposed to have visitors yet. Bruce had bribed a pair of orderlies after failing to get special permission from Leland. She was adamant that John had to earn visitor privileges by demonstrating appropriate behavior. Bruce would likely be able to see him in three weeks; he should send letters or cards in the meantime.

It was a certainty that mail would not offer the same assurance to John that Bruce had not abandoned him as Bruce's physical presence. And when Bruce was honest with himself, he knew he was also being selfish. John had accused him of being just like Waller, of cherry-picking "principles" that suited him at the moment. Bruce didn't need to be back on a pedestal; he needed to know that after saying all that, after attacking Batman, John had really meant it when he said he didn't hate him.

Bruce did compromise with Leland in a way. He told John that his next visit would come with official visitor privileges. It seemed like a good incentive for John to maintain his behavior (not to mention that wind of unofficial visits could eventually get back to Leland). John seemed disappointed to lose special treatment already, but he agreed, flashing a thumbs up with his good hand.

At Leland's three-week mark, Bruce checked in with the Arkham receptionist, and she confirmed (bewilderedly, double-checking the patient name) that John had acquired his privileges. Their first official visit was the next day. Bruce signed in at the front desk, stuck a visitor sticker on his suit jacket, and entered the visiting "lounge." It was a big room with paintings of spring scenery, rows of tables and chairs, and much better lighting than the patient rec room. John wasn't there yet. Half the tables were occupied; an unspoken privacy rule left every other one empty. Bruce chose a spot in the back corner.

He noticed instantly when John walked in; his green hair might as well have been a beacon. He was supervised by a bored-looking orderly and, to Bruce's chagrin, waved with both hands because they were bound with a double-looped zip tie. John grinned as he came over, not acknowledging the man trailing behind him or the startled looks of the other visitors.

Bruce stood up to greet him with a smile of his own. "Hi, John."

"Buddy!" John chirped. "It's so good to see you! For the first time in a while!" He winked, but noticed Bruce glancing at his wrists. "I asked Dr. Leland if we could forego this part, but if you can believe it, she said her hands were tied." He chuckled.

"She is a stickler for the rules," Bruce said.

The look on John's face lost its giddiness. "Yeah. One of the few, huh?"

Bruce wasn't sure how to take that. He gestured at the table and sat down first. John sat across from him. The orderly leaned against the wall in the opposite corner.

John didn't dwell on his remark; he launched into the same comparisons Bruce had been making. None of the lights in this room were broken, and the windows looked like they'd been cleaned within the past year. All the chairs were padded, and wow, would you look at that, a carpet! Of course, probably not a lot of blood got spilled in here, though if it did, John supposed it was bad blood anyhow. Bruce felt overwhelmed by the stream of words until he realized he was likely one of the few people John had spoken to in the past month. He forced himself to relax and let John vent.

After a story about Arnold Wesker trying to steal people's hair for his sock puppet, there was finally a pause. Bruce gestured to thin layer of bandages wrapped around John's palm. "Looks like your hand is doing better."

John wiggled his fingers. "Yeah, luckily the batarang slid right between the metacarpals, the surgeons said, so that's awesome, right?"

Bruce could not return the enthusiasm, considering he knew the batarang hadn't so much "slid" as it had been "violently jammed."

"Plus they were able to reconnect the original nerve, so we don't have to try a cadaver nerve!" John laughed. "A zombie nerve would've been neat, though." He looked up, glanced at the orderly, then back at Bruce. "So... how is Tiffany?"

Tiffany and her matching injury. Bruce wondered, not for the first time, if he'd chosen to restrain John that way as a subconscious punishment. He did not like the idea. "She's fine," he answered. "No cadaver parts for her either." Miraculously.

John nodded and his gaze suddenly locked on Bruce's face. "So she's still plugging away at the ol' nine-to-five at your office?"

Bruce had been dreading this. "Yes. She's been working hard. She has a lot to learn, and she wants to make up for her mistakes. She's been doing a lot of ... side work for me."

"Hm." John drummed his fingers on the table top. "Sounds... nice."

"You've been working hard here," Bruce said, only vaguely sure of the point he was trying to make.

"You're not the best at analogies."

"Therapy got you out of here before. You can do it again, John."

John rapped the table twice with the knuckles on both fists. Bruce stared at him, and John did it again.

"... Who's there?" Bruce ventured.

"Probably a nurse," John said with bright bitterness, "because I don't know where I'm going to put all my coping mechanisms to use but here!"

Bruce couldn't meet his eyes and attempted a casual shrug. "If you meet the criteria--"

"For the guillotine? Are they polling for that yet?" John flopped back in his chair, his hands falling into his lap. "If anything has confirmed that I am not a hero, it's the local news."

In the immediate aftermath of John's capture, the Gotham media focused on Waller's kidnapping and the explosions at the GCPD, and how Arkham could have released such a madman.

"It can't be helpful for you to see all that," Bruce said carefully.

"Dr. Leland doesn't think so either," John said, "but not all the staff cares to keep such a close eye." He gestured to his chaperone, who smacked on gum and stared blankly toward the front of the room. "It's not like I don't realize that everything... went badly." He chuckled. "My lawyer has made it exceptionally clear."

"You know, John, you can decline the public defender. I can get my lawyers to help you."

"Ha! Oh, yeah, that's a real good look, Bruce. 'Problematic billionaire pays for top lawyers to represent bloodthirsty lunatic.'"

"Don't call yourself that," Bruce said sharply. "And believe me, it won't be long before the tabloids notice me coming here anyway." John regarded him with a cautious look, and it struck Bruce that he didn't think these visits would last. "I'll be here every week."

John looked even less assured. "Why?"

"Because I'm your friend."

John kept staring, then let out a long exhale, his cheeks puffing up. "Well, I guess I can't stop you."

That was absolutely the last thing Bruce expected to hear. "Do you... not want me to come?"

"Of course I do! But friends look out for each other's best interests. Obviously I might not have the best judgment here..." John pointed toward the Arkham logo on his shirt. "... but I mean, Alfred can't think it's a great idea."

"Alfred's opinion has no bearing," Bruce said, trying to keep his voice even.

Naturally, John sensed something was off and squinted at him. "I think you're a better liar when someone might crush your skull with a barbell." He leaned forward, forearms on the table. "I'm guessing Alfie said that you must be knackered to go through with this tosh," he said, slipping into that terrible British accent. 

Bruce hesitated. "Alfred... He decided it was time to retire."

"What?" John made a sour face, like Bruce had made a bad joke. "What are you talking about?"

"Alfred worked for my family since before I was born," Bruce said mechanically. "At his age, it was time for him to move on."

John's eyes drifted to the tabletop, and he sat very still. Bruce leaned forward to meet him across the middle of the table. "Listen to me," he said quietly. "I know what you're thinking. Alfred left because of me, okay? John?"

John lifted his eyes.

"It was coming regardless of-- of what happened with you. At this point, I was expecting too much from him. It affected his health. He's happier now in England. Relaxed. He deserves that."

"That..." John shook his head. "That just sucks, Bruce. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Bruce said automatically.

"It is not okay!" John's laugh was strained. "Dr. Leland says it's important to acknowledge your feelings as valid, and I think we can affirm that very few things are okay right now." He cocked his head, reconsidering his words. "I mean generally right now. Specifically right now, this is okay."

Bruce couldn't help a small smile. "Yeah. This is okay." How ridiculous. He was supposed to be here helping John, not vice versa. But then, John did always like helping him. The smile faded. "I never apologized to you."

John blinked. "Oh, well... you were trying to--"

"I'm sorry everything played out like it did, that you felt like I didn't actually care. I do. I... I care a lot." Bruce swallowed. "In Harley's office, you were right. I was caught up with finding her, but I could have at least texted you instead of just assuming you were fine. After everything you'd done, it was wrong of me."

John looked away but his expression was pleased. "Yeah, well, I didn't text you either when I saw you'd escaped the pod. I mean, I had those... suspicions, but I wasn't sure." He looked at Bruce again. "Still hard to believe you took the hit for the laptop."

"That was the right decision, even if it almost got me killed." Bruce paused. "I wish I knew all the right decisions. I can only use my best judgment. Sometimes that leads to compromises that are unsatisfying, but I can't control everything, and trying would only make worse consequences. Despite the lengths I've gone to, I don't think one man should be judge and jury. I hope you understand that."

John's smile was close-lipped. "You left the last one off."

 _Executioner._ Bruce looked him in the eyes. John hadn't said it yet, that what he'd done to those agents in Ace Chemicals was wrong. Or that it was right. Bruce could find no glimmer of either thought. John suddenly seemed shut off.

The orderly pushed off from the wall and over to their table. "Thirty minutes are up," he said.

John jerked back to life, looking up at the orderly then back at Bruce with disappointment.

Bruce said quickly, "Next week."

"Alright," John said, nodding as they reluctantly left the table. "I'll see you then." He sounded like he still didn't quite believe it.

"I'll check with Dr. Leland about staying longer."

Another nervous nod. "You know, Bruce," John said hesitantly, "you could... if you wanted..." His shoulders sagged, and he stared at his bound hands. In a room with dozens of people, he looked utterly alone. "It would be nice..."

Bruce stepped forward and embraced him. John tensed up at first, surprised, but then he rested his cheek on Bruce's shoulder with a happy hum. Bruce couldn't help but think of the funhouse, back when things seemed like they could turn in the right direction. But maybe that moment was now.

The orderly cleared his throat. Bruce pulled away, and John beamed at him. "That was sweet, but I was gonna say you're allowed to bring food."

Blood rushed to Bruce's cheeks. "Oh."

John elbowed him lightly. "It's always good to know you care!" As the orderly led him away, he threw a request over his shoulder. "Those tacos with the nacho cheese shell?" 

Dr. Leland wanted to talk to Bruce in person before he left. They met in her office, her sitting behind a desk that took up half the small room, and Bruce sitting on a couch along the opposite wall. She said bringing food was fine, but the staff had to examine it and it had to be eaten during the visit. Another month of good behavior, however, would extend the visit length and allow John to have his hands free. Then she moved on to other matters.

"Forgive me if I sound oblique. John's therapy is private, and while it's commendable you've chosen to remain his emergency contact, that does not make you his medical power of attorney. There are limits to what I can tell you."

"Okay," Bruce replied.

"After John left, we discovered that he'd hidden a stash of contraband," she said. "To most people that sounds like drugs and the like, but it's a blanket term for anything not permitted. John's contraband included a bundle of newspaper and magazine clippings about you, dating back to when you returned to Gotham to lead your company." She waited for his reaction.

"Look," Bruce said uneasily, "if I'd seen that before getting to know him, it would have raised red flags, of course."

Her brow furrowed. "You don't see red flags now?"

"I know it's not... usual, and believe me, John made his admiration for me very clear, but we went through a lot together. You remember him helping me when I was in here, for starters. So no, I'm not scared of him."

She nodded slowly. "John still expresses a strong attachment to you, more than I'd say is healthy. So it's important that you understand that John grew up in here. No family ever claimed him. He never made lasting friendships with other patients. Since he's been back, you are the only person who has shown interest in him."

Bruce frowned. It felt like he was being accused of something. "What are you getting at?"

"To be frank, if you are here out of some sense of guilt about this poor guy who 'admires' you, that guilt that will eventually fade. It would be best for John if you cut ties now."

"That is not why I'm here," Bruce said tersely.

She seemed to relax, though only slightly. "I'm glad to hear it. In that case, I ask you to demonstrate your friendship actively and be as honest with him as you can." She opened a drawer and as she rummaged through it, she threw him a side-long glance. "Whatever you consider your relationship, be honest."

The insinuation was slight, but Bruce's mind responded by throwing up a wall, trying to barricade any thought in response. What was there to think? John needed help right now, and that--

_"I was such an idiot. I was so busy looking at you. Admiring you. Wanting to be like you... Be loved by you..."_

_"Buddy, aw buddy, are you okay?"_

_"I'm trusting you on this."_

_"That's for messing with my Batman!"_

_"Ooh! I've got an idea! Let's play pretend!"_

_"Wait! Not Bruce. You can't. He's-- he's my best friend."_

_The warmth of John's cheek pressed into Bruce's shoulder, green hair brushing under his chin and along the side of his face._

\--was what mattered. "Of course. Trust is important, and John should trust his friends."

Leland straightened, sorting through an handful of pamphlets and papers. "And you should trust him. When his behavior is inappropriate, you need to let him know."

"Of course," he repeated.

She handed him a few materials bound with a paperclip. "This information packet covers some helpful guidelines, both for how Arkham operates and your own expectations. But feel free to get in touch with me if you have any concerns you want to discuss."

He nodded, staring blankly at the packet.

"Mr. Wayne," Leland said carefully, and when he looked up, her face had that same concern as when he left her care a year before. "I know you have... legal concerns, but if you need to speak with someone about your experience in confidence, I can recommend--"

Bruce stood abruptly. "No, thank you, Doctor. I'll be on my way."

On the next visit, he brought the tacos and was rewarded with John's delight. The visit after that, he brought a deck of cards so they could do something other than eat fast food and mull over what they couldn't change. He hadn't expected John to be so excited about the cards, nor had he expected John to grab them, start expertly shuffling them even with linked wrists, and quiz him on which games he knew. Bruce didn't think he'd heard of half the games John rattled off. But it was good to see him show such enthusiasm, to seem like the man who'd walked the streets of Gotham rather than the more sinister persona Bruce had met first.

Then the Ace Chemicals videos leaked. Bruce's visit was the day after, and he didn't know what to expect from John. He didn't get the chance to find out. After signing in, he was escorted to Dr. Leland's office. She told him that John had seen a TV segment about the videos and "had an episode." She didn't elaborate; John could tell Bruce about it if he chose.

Bruce's stomach churned. How bad of a setback would this be? "Isn't the leak something he would want?" he asked. "It doesn't change what people think of him. It puts a light on Director Waller."

Leland shook her head. "This is the first time the public has seen clear video of 'the Joker' in action, including John. Seeing yourself from the outside is not the same as your lived experience. People can see how he is increasingly 'unhinged' in those clips. John sees it, and John knows what happened behind all the editing. John knows what he did to three people after those clips, to say nothing of the others who died while he was pursued. He is reliving that whole night and everything he learned about his idol and himself. He tells me that the other deaths he is accused of were in self-defense, and if that's true, that's trauma on top of everything else. He is struggling to rebuild from all that."

"It's true, the self-defense," Bruce said. She stared at him expectantly. "I can't say details, but it's true."

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Thank you for the information. It's helpful." A pause. "It's a challenge, resolving John's fascination with violence with everything he's encountered here and in the city."

Bruce nodded. "He told me about his admiration for Batman. I'd hoped that would be a good example for him."

"Batman is absolutely not a good example," she said with abrupt aggression. She paused to collect herself. "John has difficulty understanding and accepting consequences for his actions. An idol who is not only violent but acts with impunity is not helpful. I understand Batman has rules and has done good things; John and I have discussed it often. But I have tried to communicate that Batman is also a fallible human being. And for anyone with John's impulses, he is not someone to emulate."

There was no arguing against what Bruce already knew.

* * *

"Canapé, sir?" asked a server who seemingly materialized out of nowhere.

Bruce pretended he didn't almost drop his still-full martini. "Ah, no, thank you."

He decided to slip out while Regina was still on the phone. A night of patrol awaited him. He emerged from behind the pillar and left his drink on a table littered with empty glasses and crumpled napkins. On his way to the front doors, he passed a group centered around Cassandra, who was stage whispering.

"Well, they never found a trace of the bodies," she said. "They have to be somewhere."

A more sympathetic woman pulled her pashmina tighter around her shoulders. "Nora was such a fixture in Gotham. It would be amazing if she resurfaced."

Nora and Victor had vanished not long after Bruce returned to the city and started his mission, so he had never met Nora at any charity events. When he'd met Victor at Old Five Points, the name sounded familiar, but he didn't make the connection to the philanthropy circuit until later.

Bruce had tried to track down where the Agency had taken Nora, but clues from the subway station were sparse. Avesta had tried asking her lingering connections about Victor's status, but no information was forthcoming. The best Bruce could do was add an algorithm to the Batcomputer that searched incoming data for signals that could be linked to either Fries. Bruce hoped that improving the temperature for Victor back in the Sanctus lab had at least staved off any cruel experimentation. If Victor's body hadn't fought the virus like he'd hoped, then nothing would have stopped the Agency from subjecting him to warmer temperatures again after transporting him out of the city. For now, the outcome remained a mystery.

Cassandra and the others were just rehashing old gossip, so Bruce continued on his way. The gala had valet parking, but even with security precautions to keep the camouflage in place, he was loathe to let anyone else drive the Batmobile. He bypassed the attendants and headed to the parking lot himself, taking a moment to enjoy the cool night air that had breezed in after a sweltering day.

When his phone vibrated, he already knew it was Tiffany. "What's going on?"

"I've finished the repair. You want to test it tonight?"

"Sounds good. It'll help trace that distribution center.

"I can't believe it takes months to get a solid case against drug dealers."

"Sometimes it takes longer." He rounded the corner of the building and spotted his car where he'd left it, in a spot halfway down the walk. "But so long as it's by the book, they have less of a chance of snaking their way out of prosecution."

"Speaking of lawyers, Joanne Dumfree was making good TV again."

"Well. She seems to know what she's doing."

"I think your lawyers' strategy of shutting the hell up is pretty good."

John had sat through through one consultation with Bruce's team of attorneys, but not long afterward had a visit from Frank Dumfree's daughter, a pro bono lawyer from East End Legal Aid. Bruce was shocked when John said he was going with her representation, but his reasoning was typical John. "How do you connect with the firm of Stodgy, Humdrum, and Drudging? Jo's got teeth."

Tiffany moved on. "I do have an urgent question," she said.

"Oh?"

"Are you stuffed with hors d'oeuvres or do you want Chinese takeout?"

"Do you know how disappointed Alfred would be if he knew how many fried dumplings I've been eating?"

"He'd be more disappointed that you set off the smoke alarm making oatmeal."

He didn't have a chance to respond. When he spotted the arm swinging from behind to wrap around his throat, he reacted instantly, dropping his cell to catch it. He was too slow, resorting to clutching at the forearm cutting off his air. He saw the white rag in time to catch the wrist of the hand holding it. The faint sweet scent of chloroform drifted toward him, and his arm shook with the effort to keep it far from his mouth.

"Don't make this harder than it has to be," the assailant growled in his ear.

The man dragged Bruce backwards, trying to keep him off-balance, but Bruce managed to lurch forward and gain some purchase on the concrete. He kicked back and struck his attacker's shin twice. A shout burst in his ear as he managed to pry the arm away from his neck. With a twist of his body, Bruce suddenly faced the man, registering only that he was middle-aged and dark-haired before landing a punch square in his nose. The man dropped the rag to grab at his injured face, and a solid kick to the stomach put him on the ground. Bruce was on him instantly, flipping him over and digging a knee into his back.

A shout nearby. One of the valets ran toward them with a cell phone to his ear. People drifted from behind the corner of the building to see what was going on. Bruce leaned over, ignoring the complaints beneath him as his weight pressed down, to grab his phone from the grass. He could already hear Tiffany shouting his name before he brought it back to his ear.

Panting, Bruce said, "I'll be delayed. Someone just tried to abduct me."

"Oh, my god. You got him?"

"Yeah," he said as the valet neared. "I'll call you back after I talk to the GCPD."

"Police are on the way," the young attendant said. "Dang, Mr. Wayne, those moves from some Agency crash course?"

"No comment."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It would be nice..."
> 
> > It probably would.  
> > What would?  
>  **> [HUG JOHN]**  
>  > ...


	2. Rewiring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on the first chapter! And sorry for the wait! I did not expect to work on this next one for a month, but here we are. I'm hoping I can decrease the time between posting... but probably not if the chapters keep being this long. Thinking I need to condense.
> 
> In this chapter, John goes through some dark times and I feel like a horrible person for writing it.

"Name's Patrick MacIntyre," Gordon said, gesturing with his coffee mug toward the the one-way glass. The man sitting on the other side leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed. "New to Gotham. Rap sheet includes robbery, assault and battery, and yeah, kidnapping. Worked for some loan sharks, bringing in 'clients' who forgot to pay." He looked over at Bruce. "M.O. was incapacitating the target on the way to their car to use it as the getaway."

"Efficient use of resources," Bruce muttered.

"He got nailed on a few counts and went to jail for five years. Just got out on good behavior-- and then jumped back in, apparently." Gordon paused before asking, "Don't suppose you know him?"

Bruce refrained from rolling his eyes. "No." MacIntyre's square, scowling face and scarred eyebrow did not ring any bells. "I'm guessing he hasn't said anything."

"Just demanded a lawyer. For now we're still stumped about the bag."

A duffel bag had been waiting by Bruce's car. The contents included not just the chloroform bottle, but also a down jacket and a pair of ski gloves. Definitely strange in June.

"So any reason someone would want to nab you, other than ransom-the-rich-guy?"

"You think this wasn't about money?"

Gordon fixed Bruce with a look best described as fed up. "Covering my bases."

Bruce sighed. "Commissioner, I am not up to anything."

"Sure about that?"

"I had my fill of intrigue when I was nearly blown up on a bridge."

The accusation in Gordon's eyes faded a little and he snorted. "Bringing in civilians... If we have to suffer this neverending media circus, I hope Waller falls off her tightrope."

"Do you need anything else from me?" Bruce asked.

"No. We'll let you know if we get anything out of him. And you'll let us know if any pertinent information comes to mind."

"Of course," Bruce said on his way out of the room.

He'd been straight with Gordon. Nothing was going on with Wayne Enterprises that would spur an abduction, at least nothing that he was aware of. And he doubted it had anything to do with Batman; if his cover was blown, he would hope someone would think to send a much more skilled captor.

Tiffany could do a data dive on the name for any possible connections. In the meantime, he needed to get on patrol, not worry about what was likely just a thug mistaking him for an easy payout.

* * *

Several hours later, at 8:02 am, Marco Sanchez signed out his taser and walkie-talkie at the equipment cage as two of the overnighters turned theirs in. The other men yawned greetings to him, and as they headed to their lockers, he entered Arkham Asylum's main hall. Nothing new was posted to the announcements board, so he proceeded to the front desk.

"Good morning, 'Lilah," he said to the receptionist.

"I guess so," she said. "Only two screamers last night." She held out a clipboard. "You're on appointment duty. Your boy's up first." When he tried to take the list, she held her grip and gave him a look. "You shouldn't be so--"

"Comfortable, yeah, yeah, I know." He pulled the clipboard away from her and scanned it. "You act like I never put out any fires around here."

"Little campfires. You've only been here since the purge."

In the Agency fallout, the Gotham Gazette had uncovered a number of hush-hush settlements paid by Arkham after reports of staff misconduct from patients' family members. After the story ran, the Health Department performed a full employee review at the asylum, though Louis Fahrenhold insisted that scheduling issues just compelled the annual review to happen early. One month later, Fahrenhold declined to explain the number of firings that resulted: two doctors, five orderlies, and two nurses, plus the Nurse Manager. This was good news not only for the patients, but for Marco, whose job at another institution upstate had just become a budget casualty. He applied to replace one of the orderlies right away.

He'd always seen the work as rough by nature, but when he came to Arkham for his interview, he was surprised by the daunting aura. For starters, while over the years the facilities had been updated through remodeling and additions, the central structure remained the gloomy Gothic mansion built by the Arkham family back in the late 1800s. The long windows along every wall seemed wide open not just to watch him, but to soak up the sunlight before it could brighten the gray grounds below.

Yet inside, most of the windows were so dingy that it was like the light just disappeared, leaving the halls enclosed in twilight. Pipes audibly dripped in the walls, and every bulb overhead stuttered like it was communicating in Morse code. The doors to the patients' rooms were thick wooden slabs remniscent of a medieval dungeon. The janitorial staff appeared to clean consistently, at least, but they left behind a pervasive odor of mildew and what Marco could swear was blood. 

The vibes were bad enough that even though Marco needed the job, he'd felt free to be totally honest with the new Nurse Manager, Aaron Cash.

"This place looks like it was condemned years ago."

"Sure does," Cash had chuckled. "Not much upkeep went into the staff either-- until now, anyway. Though the bureaucrats still left some shady characters to keep an eye on. Really, they brought me in to paint over the shit, but with the right help, I think we can do better."

Cash's attitude had been enough to make Marco reconsider. The pay was no better than his last job, but he liked the idea of having a role in improving Arkham. He'd been attracted to this kind of work to start with because his father had been committed, back when Marco was just a kid. He'd seen firsthand how dismally staff could treat patients, and he wanted to prevent that happening where he could. And he could have a hand in actually reshaping this place, not just making the cosmetic changes aimed at getting the press off Fahrenhold's back. Yeah, the poor guys who were convinced the aliens were coming back would find such comfort in a pastel-colored wall-- which already had water stains bleeding through it.

Marco and the six other hires had done their best to follow Cash's updated protocol. After almost a year, Arkham was still the gloomiest place Marco had ever been, but the pipes got fixed, the blood smell had faded, and the windows had been cleaned a few times. Plus enough infractions got documented that Cash got to fire another, in his words, "abusive asshole."

So sure, Marco was a little cavalier in his response to Delilah. "Seems like the purge took away the fuel for bigger fires."

"I don't mind fewer sleazebags," she said, "but the patients are still the patients. I like having you Cash boys around. I just want to keep it that way."

He ambled backwards to the patient area gate, gesturing from his heart to her visage. "We'll always be called back to that angel face!"

And she would always roll her eyes.

Marco spent the first hour helping sort medication (and checking for mysterious shortages), then made his way to the rec room. As expected, the infamous John Doe was not on his way to his 9:00 therapy session. Instead, he stood atop one of the tables, holding a book in one hand and gesturing widely with the other. He had a willing audience of about a dozen men, and the tolerance of a dozen more who'd retreated to the outskirts of the room. (The wandering or catatonic did their own thing, as usual.)

"After that," John read, "I lived like a young rajah in all the capitals of Europe-- Paris, Venice, Rome-- collecting jewels, chiefly rubies, hunting big game, painting a little, things for myself only, and trying to forget something very sad that had happened--"

Marco whistled for attention. "J-man, we talked about you scuffin' the tables."

"Whoops!" John hunched his shoulders and giggled. "Must've forgot."

That was doubtful. "You forget anything else?"

John twisted his neck to look at the clock on the wall behind him. "Oh, right." He tossed the book on the table and hopped down, dispersing his audience. "Lead the way, old sport!" he said.

John had recently re-acquired permission to move about the halls alone, but the policy for lateness was to escort the patient to their doctor. John was late most of the time. Marco assumed it was on purpose; he'd noticed that John liked to observe most everyone, and if he engaged you in conversation, it was only later that you realized you'd disclosed more detail than you were comfortable with. For Marco, that solved the mystery of how John had been let out of here just a few months after triggering a riot. He managed to be quite the charmer even if half the stuff he said came out of left field. 

So despite knowing John had killed over a dozen people, and having heard disquieting stories from the seasoned staff, Marco didn't mind these little walks. Maybe if he'd been around during John's last "outburst," he would have felt differently. As it was, Marco's philosophy was to keep the peace, and besides, John seemed to like him well enough. Humming to himself, John strolled alongside Marco like they were out in the gardens. If he kept up the good behavior for another month, he could do that for real, including on visits with Wayne.

Wayne was supposed to come tomorrow, come to think of it. Amazing that it slipped Marco's mind, given how often the billionaire came up during break room gossip. Another opportunity to catch his fellow orderlies staring wistfully at Wayne's car while on their smoke break.

"Hey, you ever get to ride in Wayne's Bugatti?" Marco asked.

"Once," John said. "Maybe twice," he added with a giggle. Marco didn't know what that was about, but with John that wasn't unusual. Like his chalky skin and grassy hair, you just got used to it.

They arrived at Dr. Leland's door. Her luck at being demoted and put on probation instead of thrown out on her ass was another watercooler topic. Not that the staff wasn't glad to still have her around. Marco had been told multiple times that, as Head Psychiatrist, Leland had been dedicated to the patients and to managing her department the best she could with dismal resources. After "the Joker" made headlines, she'd had to advocate for her job to the Board of Trustees, and Marco figured that reminding them of all her thankless work must have been what kept her employed.

The door was ajar and Leland was sitting at her desk. Marco knocked and pushed the door further open. "Ah, there you are," she said with a smile.

John nodded magnanimously to Marco as he sidled by. "You are a true gentleman, sir." 

Before Marco could respond, the walkie-talkie on his hip chirped. When he answered, Delilah's voice came over the speaker. "Laundry truck showed up out back. Bill told them our machines are fixed, but they keep saying someone called them. Handle it?"

"Maybe the laundry guy is three sheets to the wind," John suggested.

Marco shot him a deadpan look. "Man, it is too early." He gave Delilah an affirmative and closed the door. The slight vibration up the wall set off a flicker in the light above. One of the things that had yet to change.

* * *

The lights were not the same. The moment John re-entered Arkham, he couldn't hear the fuzzy hum, only an incessant buzzing. The difference was subtle enough that he could tell himself that he was mistaken or that the drugs filtered the sound wrong, but if he was quiet and focused, he still heard buzzing.

He decided it couldn't bother him. He was back home, for better or for worse. This is what he'd thought about sometimes on the outside, after all, how reliable Arkham was. Steady schedule, routine checks. The staff kept him isolated at first, but once he was "emotionally stable," he fell back into his rapport with the orderlies easily enough. When he was around other patients, no new faces took him for a new guy to push around, and all the old faces were as reluctant to approach him as ever. He didn't have the lights, but he could make a new blanket out of the old patterns.

A stitch in that blanket was Bruce, because he showed up. He actually showed up, and he said that he cared about John. Even after John had nearly blown him up, after John had hit him and shot at him and stabbed him, after Bruce had seen...

The funny thing about about killing was that the reality was less funny than he'd imagined. Some random sap being stabbed out of this mortal coil because Zsasz convinced himself it was a favor? Ridiculous. Oh-so-superior Riddler reduced to the same worm-ridden shell they'd all be one day? Hysterical. Waller poisoned with the same fatal virus that she recklessly wanted to use like a carrot on a stick? Hoo boy.

When push came to shove in the funhouse, though, killing had not been his strategy, even if the trio who burst in showed none of Agent Avesta's calm. Retreating around a corner for shelter from the blasting guns, John had lobbed back offers to come freely, since it seemed way less painful than being riddled with holes. Besides, if Bruce was working with the Agency, Bruce would vouch for him.

But the agents hadn't wanted to hear anything from him, and the further he was driven into the funhouse, the clearer it became that they didn't intend for him to come out again.

That biding presence inside him had sprouted then, coiling through his bones and muscles, taking hold with an eerie and comforting tenacity. He'd known he'd be okay even before the murderous pigs were dead. Standing among their lifeless bodies was funny, for a moment. These people trained years to hunt down targets, and yet he needed only a pulsing surge of adrenaline and a suppressed instinct to take them out. And how ridiculously simple it had been to grab that power, to end life, with a metal pipe and a gun.

The gun, like many things, had brought Bruce to mind. Bruce-- Batman, for sure-- didn't like guns. He didn't like killing, and he didn't just say that, he demonstrated it. And John had just killed three people. The tenacity drained away. He had to fix this, but he couldn't. There was no clever ploy or disarming line that brought people back from the dead. This was permanent. Panic had clawed the inside of his chest, setting off sparks of anger, because he'd tried to go about the right way, and it hadn't mattered, and _no one will believe you._

No one believed when medications were switched around for giggles. No one believed when patients were being riled up against each other and bets were placed. No one believed that a suicide took place after weeks of daring whispers. No one believed about the jangle of keys and muffled cries in the middle of the night. And if the truth did come out... Well, there were reprimands. Well, those individuals were let go. Well, that should never happen again. Well, well, well, back to your cell.

But Bruce believed him.

He still felt a swelling in his chest when he thought of those words. _I believe you._ He liked to dwell on it; it made him feel light and dizzy.

Thinking about what resulted was a downer.

The Joker was supposed to be a hero, not "a madman on a rampage." It was hard to pinpoint where he went wrong. In the funhouse, he'd had to kill those agents to get them to stop. It only made sense that killing would get them to stop again. Sure, he was no longer cornered, but every time he'd popped out of hiding, guns trained on his head. But then, Bruce had gone up against the same thing, more often than John had, and could still insist there were other answers, that death was the line not to be crossed. So John had listened to him, for a while, thinking he'd come to accept the line through practice. Fake it 'til you make it.

But maybe you could only see the line with a technologically enhanced cowl. 

Yeah, and maybe the cowl also bestowed god-like judgment on which criminals got to walk away.

Harley would've sneered at the idea of a line. Everyone would be dead one day anyway, so who cared if it was sooner rather than later, if it was because they were in your way rather than heart disease? Simplify. Do what you want and don't look back.

Just like she'd done at the Sanctus lab.

But when they first met, she'd pulled him up, like she was magnetic, the positive to his negative. And how negative he'd been then.

Since he first woke up at Arkham, John had tended toward a positive outlook. Sure, it was not great that his past was beyond an insurmountable wall in his brain, but the doctors indicated that the wall had likely been built by something awful that happened, and who wanted to deal with that? Well, Dr. Leland, of course, but after years of trying to chip at the brick, even she'd eventually shifted their focus to other issues.

But more years passed, and John's impulses kept overriding his reason, and he kept saying the wrong things, and the possibility of release shrank further into the distance. Maybe he wasn't meant to go beyond these walls either. He'd tried to burrow into that thought, to look at it as belonging somewhere, but he would catch the sun breaking through the clouds over the city, or spot visitors coming and going on the long road to the gate. There was a whole wide world out there, where they filmed everything on the TV, where the guards' stories played out, where the tabloids took pictures of terrifically tragic Bruce Wayne.

Where there was no one who would ever come for him.

He'd gotten to the point where he saved most of his energy for Dr. Leland, so she wouldn't worry. Because if he was stuck here, he'd feel whatever he wanted.

And if he got tired of feeling it, he'd solve it however he wanted.

Then Dr. Leland had gone on a rare vacation, and check-ins with her patients were assigned to Dr. Quinzel, who'd been on staff almost a year. Normally John would have been excited to analyze someone different, but lately he'd taken to wandering off in his head most of the day. Other doctors would've shrugged at his persistent silence and noted it for Dr. Leland's return.

But Harley had whacked her clipboard on the side of her cheap metal desk and shouted, "Hey!!"

John jolted to attention. He sat in a chair across from hers.

"With how much Dr. Leland worries about you," she said tersely over the reverberation, "I thought I'd finally get to hear something interesting."

He caught a purposeful articulation in her speech, but couldn't keep up his curiosity. "How? Same walls. Same rude cretins. Every day. On and on."

"Then I suppose you ought to stay out of la-la land and do your best to get out of here."

Speaking of rude. "Easy for you doctors to say. You're welcome out there-- especially for keeping the freaks in."

The corner of her mouth quirked up. "There are freaks out there. You just need to hide it well enough."

With a dull stare, he picked at his green hair with his white hand.

"Ohhh." Her smirk changed to a small smile, and she looked at him with a pity reserved for puppies trying to climb stairs. "Oh, puddin', do you really worry about that? People would just think you really need a tan and you dye your hair. And if they realize it's natural and got a problem with it..." She shrugged. "Their problem. I mean, really, what a relief. You should see how hard some sad sacks work to be unique. You got it built in."

She... liked his look? He felt an unfamiliar feeling in his stomach, like it was twisting around, but it didn't hurt or make him nauseated.

"Now, as I was saying," she said, back to business, "you were in the art therapy class a couple of days ago, with the clay. Do you have anything you want to express about what happened?

One of his classmates had fitted a looped scraping tool around his own ear and ripped it right off. It was one of John's few laughs lately, and he couldn't help giggling now. "Yeah, if they'd tried music therapy first, he would've had the ear for it."

He expected a stern purse of the lips. Instead, Harley's stony expression softened again, and a chuckle tumbled in her throat. She leaned forward, intrigued. "Doc Leland thinks you oughta reel that in, John," she said, an accent leaking through. "What do you think?"

"I... It's funny. Even if I don't say it, it's still funny."

"So why hold it back, right?" Her smile widened, and the skin around her bright blue eyes crinkled. No one so pretty had ever looked at him like that, like they appreciated his company.

"I don't know," he replied, though a reason from Dr. Leland must've been somewhere in his head. He was distracted by the contrast of Harley's blood-red lipstick and the sharp white of her teeth.

"Sometimes no answer is the answer." With a glance at the chart, she dismissed him. "You're looking hunky-dory, John, but maybe we'll chat again some time."

And they had, just a couple times in therapy sessions, and otherwise in short encounters in the halls, and each time he'd felt more enraptured. Harley was so self-assured. She never showed fear of him or any other patient, never let the orderlies or nurses second-guess her demands, never put up with other doctors questioning her decisions. Like him, she liked to talk to people, to put out her feelers for interesting information and store it away for later. And though she had to hide it, she was not afraid to use violence. One time he'd come across her in the garden; she'd pinned a patient to a tree with one hand over his mouth, her nails digging into his cheeks, and her other hand pressing a trowel into his gut. She said he'd disrespected her. John had been happy to keep her secret.

She'd given him something to look forward to, before the Children of Arkham started their revolution and Harvey Dent went on his explosive crusade, illustrating her point about freaks lurking on the outside. And then John had been able to piece together the rumors and murmurs about the asylum's past that he'd gathered over the years. The world outside wasn't so far off after all, was it? Especially when he could influence it by passing his information on to Bruce, and then Batman had turned up within Arkham's walls.

After all that, when Harley had stopped showing up to work, he felt his spirits darkening again, but around the same time he'd found out he was being released in another month. He'd known that couldn't be a coincidence, that he was supposed to go find her. She'd been his guiding light on the inside, and she could be the same on the outside.

And okay, maybe now that seemed naive. Harley liked him for a laugh and as a snitch, strung shapeless possibilities around his neck, but when things got tough, he was no better than dead weight.

Maybe he should have interpreted the signs as pointing to Bruce and gone to him first-- but he hadn't seen Bruce in a year, wasn't sure how receptive he'd be to rekindling their friendship. John had saved his favor until the right moment came along. And well, that had worked, really, in a roundabout way. Until he tried his new "purpose."

In that, maybe he'd been... prematurely enthusiastic.

But mistakes are opportunities for growth. So that was fine. Everything was fine.

He was back where he started, but it was familiar ground.

Even without the lights.

On the eve of Bruce's fifth visit, John laid in one of the easy chairs in front of the rec room television, with his back against one arm and his legs hooked over the other. A basket of torn Arkham-issue clothing sat on the coffee table. He had a ripped shirt in his lap, and an orderly watched as he stitched it up with an oversized plastic needle. A real needle would produce a neater result, but it was something to do, and he could use whatever color thread he liked. And after all, doing something productive without pay was the asylum's preferred form of therapy.

It had crossed his mind to make a replacement Bruce doll, but it seemed silly after spending so much time with the flesh-and-blood man. Granted, a doll seemed less silly in the middle of the night, when he laid in bed staring at the ceiling. In any case, Dr. Leland knew about his tabloid collection now, and the doll would just lead to another talk about how "very concerned" she was. (That was one of her three settings: very concerned, not angry but disappointed, and hiding exhaustion.)

The evening news burst onto the screen with urgent music. The anchor's voice boomed: "Breaking news tonight: this station has come into the possession of a number of video clips filmed during the kidnapping of Agency Director Amanda Waller in April."

In the middle of rethreading the needle, John froze. He'd been ready for an update on his story, but not this. He'd assumed the Agency had thrown Lauren's camera into a memory hole.

"These recordings show the Director alluding to possible unethical and criminal behavior. Be advised that what you are about to see contains disturbing content."

And there on the screen for all of Gotham to see was John interrogating Waller in the toxic bowels of Ace Chemicals. She was bound and he repeatedly drew his toothed blade to her throat, demanding confessions. She spoke in that self-righteous tone that made him want to cut out her tongue, but as the clips rolled on, John's focus was drawn to himself.

He remembered this. He remembered wanting justice. That's what a hero wanted. She'd spread lies about him, said he murdered Riddler. But she'd also blackmailed Bruce into working with her. She'd put dangerous criminals in her own personal brute squad instead of in jail. Frank and Willy had told him all about the Agency's illegal searches at the docks, their warrantless raids at the Stacked Deck and other businesses, their travel checkpoints that shut down neighborhoods and detained citizens. As a hero, John had wanted justice for everyone, not just himself.

_Let's play pretend!_

Look at him on the screen, toying with the supposed line, gathering evidence to show Bruce it couldn't be that bad to cut Waller open and spill her guts into the boiling chemicals, could it? Didn't she want John to be a killer, after all? She'd made him one, sending her merciless agents to the funhouse, and she wanted _him_ to account for it with his life while she never had to account for anything, retreating to the role of referree when being a player got too dangerous.

Even then, _even then_ , Bruce insisted she could be held accountable by the system, the same one that allowed her authority to start with. And John was done trying his way. How was letting her walk away a hero move? 

Batman on screen now, just in a few flashes, but the contrast burned John's eyes. Sleek black armor fitted with expert tech. A clumsily repaired costume cobbled together by thrift and by theft. A broad muscled body sculpted by years of dedicated training. A lanky frame wired together with anger and delirium. A deep stoic voice advocating for calm. A scratchy, cracking voice demanding solutions by knifepoint.

And after this, beyond the camera's eye...

Someone came up behind the chair. "And they say I'm crazy," said Sane Lewis, and John looked up at him. The glow from the TV highlighted Lewis's drawn brows, the grimace of his mouth. The mouth opened and let out a single, disbelieving laugh.

John pulled himself up by the backrest and jammed the needle into Lewis's shoulder. Lewis screamed, and John's weight knocked the chair back, knocked Lewis to the ground with John on top of him. John locked his bandaged hand around Lewis's throat and punched that gawking face, over and over, told him to keep his stupid comments to his goddamn self. Lewis had been here almost as long as John had; he had no idea what it was like out there, fumbling around alone, grasping for guidance, slipping on every foothold, and you couldn't run away because the only places that would take you in were lined with cages. 

Arms locked around John's chest and hauled him off. He lashed out with all his limbs, twisting to get free, but three orderlies pinned him on his back. He kept trying to throw them off, arching his spine, screaming. A nurse appeared, and he didn't even feel the needle, just watched the grimacing faces fade away.

He woke up in his bed. His throat burned. Crickets chirped outside, and the grate over the window let in a hatched square of moonlight. He could hardly move; padded cuffs held his wrists by his waist and his ankles to the end of the bed. He pulled on the restraints, feeling the pressure, wondering how much it would take to pop his limbs out of their sockets.

His knuckles were crusted with dried blood. It had been so warm oozing from Lewis's mouth and nose, just like the spurts and sprays from the agents in the factory. Was Lewis dead, too? Did John care? Why did it matter? Harley said it didn't matter.

Harley didn't think he mattered. She left him, twice she left him behind. She hit him in the face and called him worthless. Laughed at him for just standing there, clutching his eye and staring at her. Did she want him to hit her back? What did she want from him? He wanted to be her partner, to learn from her, to thrive like she did, but as much as he tried to make her happy, he never lived up to his "potential." What did that even mean? Why didn't she just tell him, instead of dragging him around like some stupid puppy on a leash?

Bruce didn't abandon him, but Bruce couldn't trust him. Bruce watched him slaughter three people, and then John tried to kill him. He tried to kill him. He tried to kill him.

But Bruce was letting bad guys off the hook, and John couldn't stand it, and that rage had crawled up his back and overwhelmed him again. And he'd let it, because there were no rules in this city, in the world, but everyone kept insisting there were, gaslighting themselves, and it was so ridiculous, such a _joke._ What did it matter what he did? Why did anything have to matter?

Why did Bruce get to be so certain he was Good?

Why was he helping people who didn't deserve it?

Why was he helping murderers?

Why was he helping John?

John couldn't breathe. He was trying, his chest hitching up and down, but there was no air. His eyes watered. His racing heartbeat throbbed in his ears. His body jerked, yanked at the cuffs, but there was nowhere to go.

He didn't want to be a murderer, he didn't want to be Bad, but he couldn't fix it. _He couldn't fix it._

The buzzing light blazed on. He twisted his head away, barely hearing the clang of the door. Then his wrists were free, and Dr. Leland stood over him, her hands on his shoulder and back, urging him to sit up. Sweat trickled down the side of his face.

"John, it's okay," she said, sitting beside him. "Breathe with me. In... two... three... four..." Her hand rubbed between his shoulder blades. "Out... two... three... four..."

He pulled at his hair and counted with her in his head.

"That's it, John. I'm going to unfasten your legs, but I'm right here." The tension on his ankles vanished and then her hand returned. "It's okay. Is there something you need?"

He closed his eyes and managed to rasp, "Light."

She snapped, "Turn off the light."

The buzzing clicked off, and when he opened his eyes it was dim again. Every breath rattled his chest, but he kept counting.

"You're going to get through this, John. Do you want to see your photo? I can--" She cut herself off when he shook his head and tucked his chin to his chest. "Okay, that's fine. Lift your head up. You'll breathe better. Two.. three..."

The tightness around his lungs eased so slowly, he had no idea how long they sat there. Eventually he noticed the orderly lurking outside the door, watching with disapproval. A purse sat overturned on the floor in the patch of moonlight. His clothes clung to his damp skin.

"How are you feeling?" Dr. Leland asked, still rubbing his back.

He wrapped his arms around his stomach and drew up his legs. "I'm not seeing Bruce tomorrow," he whispered.

Her hand stilled. "No, John. You know the rules." She gestured to the ankle cuffs. "But this was not okay. You are not supposed to be restrained for so long, and I'm sorry that it happened." Her tone took on a tension he knew was meant for the orderly.

"I'm stuck here either way," he said with a rough laugh.

"You don't know that, John."

He bristled. "You and Bruce just looooove to say that." He jerked his head around to glare at her. "And you're wrong. Because you were wrong before. You said I was cured!"

Her expression was startled at first, but it smoothed into her calm therapy face. She stood and faced him. "I did not say you were 'cured.' I said you were rehabilitated and I believed you should have the opportunity to have a life outside this institution."

More laughter bubbled in his throat. "What's the prognosis now? You've seen the videos, haven't you? Sure you have. The 'rehabilitated' subject was introduced into an experimental habitat, where he encountered brand new, unusual stressors. Fortunately he was no longer a danger to himself and others-- except whoopsie!" He held up his bloodied hands. "Tell me how _you're_ feeling, doc."

She looked at his hands, then back at his face. "John," she said, and already he hated the patience and understanding in her tone. "We can discuss this more at your next session. But I think you know, whatever happens next, however long it takes, it's going to depend on you."

He seethed. She checked his bandaged hand. She stayed with him until he got cleaned up.

It took a couple fitful days, but he begrudgingly set another course on the S.S. Good Behavior. Yet while he wanted to see Bruce again, a bitterness set in at the same time. Even when Bruce sent cards in lieu of visiting, something sour simmered under John's usual gratefulness.

"Contradicting feelings are normal," Dr. Leland said. "You and Bruce are friends, but you've still just recently found out he was spying on you for the organization that brought you back here, for better or worse. Bruce is also a very privileged person, which can be difficult to think about when we struggle. But that doesn't mean your positive feelings toward him aren't real." Then she considered the hollows under John's eyes and asked if he was sleeping.

Absolutely, he was! Except actually he wasn't, because maybe she thought it was better for his state of mind that the orderlies take the news ban seriously, but now John was left to wonder what was being said about him and the Agency. He got snippets here and there, the most significant being a surprise letter from Frank in Blackgate. Frank said that his daughter was a lawyer and wanted to meet with John, particularly in light of some statement from Bruce, telling the public that John had stopped release of the Lotus virus.

Leland said she wanted him to get his information from nonsensational sources, mainly his public defender, Dennis Whateverhisname. So at their next meeting, John mustered the will to listen to the skittish man's jargony ramblings. Denny had a copy of Bruce's statement, and added that the videos had prompted leaks from not just the GCPD but the Agency about Waller's conduct, supporting the defense that she'd escalated the whole situation. But while Denny was maintaining the plea of not guilty by reason of insanity, the Agency was retaliating by pushing harder on the charges they "recommended" to the city.

"So, ah, basically," Denny said, as usual focused on his assorted folders rather than John's face, "they're positing that, ah, our plea is invalid because you're not, um..."

John raised an eyebrow. "They're saying I'm not really crazy?"

"Well, I wouldn't... In layman's terms."

For a few minutes, John laughed so hard he thought he'd literally bust a gut. Wiping the tears from his eyes, he said, "Can I send Waller a fruit basket? That's one of the nicest things anyone's ever said about me."

Well, at least Gotham would know the one definitely good thing John did. But he was still stuck on why. Why should Bruce want to help him, after he'd killed people, after he'd tried to do the same to Bruce? He needed to ask, even if it broke the discretion they used in the visiting lounge.

Though when the day of their next visit finally came, it was hard to keep the question in his head. Dr. Leland had figured out that he was lying about getting any sleep and, as he'd feared, made some changes to his medication regimen. The new pills made him groggy for a long time after he woke up. She was going to adjust the dosage, but as it was, the clock was nearing eleven and his eyelids kept drifting closed. He was waiting at the usual table in the lounge, and rubbing his face with his cuffed hands wasn't doing much to help. He decided to rest his eyes until Bruce arrived and laid his head down in the circle of his arms.

The one nice thing about the new meds was that he didn't dream. After his... encounter with Sane Lewis, who got some stellar tooth implants out of the whole deal, John's sleep had been interrupted by kaleidoscopic nightmares of fluorescent green and slick crimson and a horribly familiar cackle. But now he could curl up in his blanket and sink into a dark, quiet nothing, and at least for a while it was like the past several months had never happened, nothing had ever happened, only oblivion.

A hand curled around his shoulder.

John snapped up and felt a sharp jolt of pain. He turned and saw the hand now flying to Bruce's left cheek, because John's skull had smacked into his face.

Clutching his head, John cracked up. "Oh, jeez, hi, sorry!"

Nearby, his supervising orderly was visibly trying not to laugh, albeit while his hand drifted away from his taser.

"I'll make a note to just let you sleep in the future," Bruce said dryly as he came around the table. He sat down, still holding his cheek. His other hand set down a book.

Having collected himself, the orderly asked, "You need an ice pack, Mr. Wayne, sir?"

"Ah, no, I'll be fine."

John's fading laughter was punctuated by a yawn, and he lifted his hands in a why-not gesture. "Oh, let Stevie help. It'll make him feel more secure with the big review coming up."

Any trace of Stevie's humor vanished, and he slinked to a spot by the wall to fret. Of all the orderlies in this place, though, he was probably one of the safe ones.

Bruce slid the book over to John. "This is sort of a welcome-back gift. I figured the selection here can't be that extensive, but let me know if you'd like something else."

It was a very plain-looking cover, obviously a college textbook like a lot of the donations to the Arkham library. But that was how John had read about Polydectes sending Perseus on a death mission for Medusa's head, and Perseus turning the tables, so he knew you could find good comedy anywhere. He pulled the book closer and read the title, _Commedia Dell'Arte: a History and a Guide._

"If it's not your type of humor..."

John looked from Bruce rubbing the red spot on his perfectly angled cheek, to the brand new book that hadn't been stolen, back to Bruce and his brow furrowing with concern, then back to the book, a lasting thing John got to keep.

Bruce, with all his skills and training, was comfortable enough around John that he didn't dodge that hit. Handsome and charming and powerful Bruce truly cared if John liked his gift. Because John was one of the few friends Bruce had left, just him and Tiffany, people Bruce needed to see the best in. Not based on any rule, but on how much he liked them, of all the loopy, lonely things.

John smiled. Bruce couldn't give a satisfying answer to his question, because Bruce was fumbling around as much as anyone. Pretty terrifying characteristic for a billionaire vigilante, but John had never faulted him for making the world more exciting.

"Well," he finally responded, "that slapstick we just had was pretty great by itself, but I like a range of humor."

Bruce finally lowered his hand and smiled back. "Good to know."

"So Waller can't have been happy about your defense of me."

"I may have received a very angry phone call," Bruce said, smile fading. "But I knew the Agency would want to deflect from the videos and you'd be the easiest scapegoat. I didn't want that to happen. I wish I could have said more, but then things get... messy." He smirked. "Luckily, Avesta and I weren't the only ones who had a problem with Waller. You have to be powerful to get away with what she has, but eventually people do get tired of it."

It made John feel warm, this moment when he and Bruce were on the same side against Waller. But warmth made him sleepy and another yawn came close to dislocating his jaw.

"Have you been sleeping?" Bruce asked.

"Doc Leland is way ahead of you." John propped his elbows on the table and held up his head in the cradle of his hands. "I've been prescribed a surplus of sleep."

"What have you been up to when you're awake?"

"I joined the croquet league. The mallets are made of styrofoam in case we snap. "

"Even in here you have to have hobbies, other than bullying people away from the TV."

"It's not bullying! It's... strident persuasion."

There was that pastime of keeping up with Bruce Wayne news, searching for those glimpses of darkness that apparently only John could see while the gossip mongers conflated truth and rumor. (Not that those bits weren't fun.) Of course, at this point, he had all that sorted, and now he got to be another source of truth and rumor. (He usually disagreed that tragedy needed time to make comedy, but the sensitivity in his wounded hand must have spread.)

Adventures in books and television took him out of this place, into the lives of people who wrestled the chaotic world into order. But his own attempt at that didn't go so well, so fantasy life had lost some luster. As for craftwork, it was going to be a while before Arkham let him get his hands on the necessary tools again.

He straightened and tapped the book cover. "Is that what this is for? Giving me a skill to develop? You think the people out there are interested in seeing me literally clown around?"

"Look, John... No, I don't know the perfect way to offer help, but I don't think you want to be in here the rest of your life."

A sparse, concrete room, with only a few possessions. Tasteless, nutrified food. Therapy sessions focused on everything that was wrong. The occasional fun of a riot, provided you weren't shanked. A friendly face just once a week, or not at all after bad days. "Not really."

John was pulled from his mind's eye when Bruce's hand covered one of his own. "Then figure out something to work toward. Something you like, even if it seems stupid. Whatever it is, I'll support you, now and when you get out."

"Even when the stocks tank?"

"Through the bottom of the spreadsheet."

John stared at him. "Sometimes I'm not sure you're a real person."

Bruce stared back. "I'm not sure how to take that."

"Don't worry," John said with a reassuring smile. "I'm not either."

* * *

As Marco left to handle the laundry confusion, John flopped onto Dr. Leland's couch, lying back facing the door. "Sorry about that, Doc. I was pining for East Egg."

Leland rolled her chair to a spot between the desk and the couch, in front of her metal cabinet. "So I've heard. Other patients have told me they're enjoying your reading sessions."

"Ha! Not all of them."

She took her seat with a notepad and pencil. "Yes, well, Mr. Zsasz's reaction is a good reminder about the importance of impulse control."

"Clumsy segue. Four out of ten."

"Let's talk about yesterday."

"You told me," John said, voice suddenly stilted, "that it didn't count as an incident."

"It doesn't, but I've asked you not to interact with Harvey while he's under isolation."

"He's always under isolation!" John folded his arms. "For being such a... grouch. I mean, so he was found mentally unstable and sentenced here. Join the club, am I right?" She showed no reaction, and he continued. "Plus if you really want him isolated, he should be in the hole."

"Even if we didn't finally board off those godforsaken catacombs," she said, "you know I wouldn't do that."

He had a flash of being dragged down molding stone stairs, thrown into a cobwebbed crevice, and shut in by a heavy iron door. Darkness closed in immediately, throwing the pounding of his fists back at him. But thankfully, as he wondered if he would run out of air, the door was dragged open, inch by inch, letting in Leland's voice as she berated the orderlies.

Good times.

"Is there a reason you couldn't wait to talk to Harvey?" she pressed.

"He didn't seem to care."

"You know how volatile his moods can be."

"Just 'cause he's of two minds about everything," John snickered. He stopped at her stern look. "I got him on a good day."

"Would he say that?"

"If you already talked to him, I don't know why we need to go over it."

"Same reason we go over anything. You may find it helpful."

John huffed. "I was just interested in a legal opinion."

"Harvey isn't involved in your case."

"No, but he killed people, too-- like _loads_ more than I did-- and he's also 'unwell,' and he's been in the court firsthand, so he's got an in-depth perspective."

"Are you concerned about how your legal representation is proceeding?"

"I don't know, I just... it's been proceeding for a long time."

"Court tends to take a long time."

"Yeah, sure, and Jo says everything is fine, but..." He rubbed the raised scar on the back of his hand. "I mean, do you think they could do it, move me to Blackgate?"

"I and other doctors have signed statements that the best place for you is here."

"Yeah, but Waller is so... pushy. And definitely mad at me. She's gotten away with a lot."

"The law isn't my field, John, so the best I can tell you is that I've read the counterstatement by the Agency's psychiatrist and I find it very poor. If Ms. Dumfree isn't concerned, neither am I, for now." She gave him a look. "But it's your choice to have her represent you. If you don't trust her, you can find a different lawyer."

"Bruce would probably rather I did."

"I imagine anyone finds their own lawyers the most reliable."

"He prefers stealth mode," John said. "That's what his guys wanted to do. But if you want me to think about getting out again... I'm not going to hide in the dark. That's why Jo is the best fit. She's got a fire raging since childhood!"

"She focuses her anger very well."

"Like a flamethrower!" John mimicked holding the weapon and let out a long, crackling whoosh sound.

"What have you been thinking about getting out of here?"

He draped one arm across his forehead and left the other suspended over the floor. "You had that point about me being a drama queen."

"I said you enjoy theatricality."

"The parts about the Joker that were fun were the costume, the grand gestures, the impact on people."

"Theater certainly has all of those, and it's a good outlet for strong emotions."

"But so what? Theoretically, I manage to find some distant podunk company that is willing to overlook the things I did?"

"People find fulfillment in small corners of the world all the time."

John sat up, taking the pillow under his head and clutching it to his stomach. "I don't want to be small," he said, scratching at the fabric restlessly. "I can't, not now. Not after scaling buildings and stopping bad guys and neutralizing viruses." He caught the way her lips pressed together and gave her a dull smile. "Don't worry, Doc. He'd never let me join up again. I just..."

Leland tapped her pen against her chin. "It's a conundrum. I think we both need more time to consider it."

"Plenty of time for that," John mumbled into the pillow.

She set aside the pad and pencil and offered him a smile. "Why don't we talk about your request?"

John's eyes snapped to her as she got up and moved her chair from the cabinet.

"We still can't permit patients to hold onto cosmetics because of concerns about the chemicals, but I have a workaround."

She yanked on the right-hand door and it opened with a screech. He could see multiple plastic bins on the shelves and she pulled out one labeled with his name on masking tape. It was the size of a shoebox, but more than big enough.

He was already sitting cross-legged at the other end of the couch when she handed him the bin. He plopped it in his lap and took inventory. A hand mirror in turquoise plastic, a tube of rose red lipstick, a compact of lilac eye shadow, a midnight black liquid eyeliner pen, and a tube of onyx mascara. It wasn't Harley's makeup case, but everyone had to start somewhere.

"I have to keep it in the cabinet, so you can put it on during our sessions or if you catch me in the office otherwise. To be clear, John, this is your property. Even though you can't hold onto it, don't think that I'll keep it from you if you displease me in a session. If you think that's happening, it's reportable."

John snorted. Dr. Leland was the only doctor here who he was sure had never been legitimately reported for anything. She was the most boring person he knew-- but also the most reliable. He'd known she would take his request seriously.

When coming up with the Joker look, it had made sense to lean further into the clown motif than he already did, so he'd picked up some lipstick along with the black and white facepaint. He hadn't thought about it beyond that, until he put the lipstick on for the first time. Obviously he was aware he had a mouth, but he'd never looked at the shape of it until he was carefully following the edges, noting the curves of his cupid's bow, the fullness of his lower lip. And then it was all highlighted in a deep red on his white face.

He liked it, he'd realized, the shape of his mouth.

The black facepoint hadn't done much for his eyes, but the point was to bring in the spooky element, and it did make his mouth stand out even more. At the time, that look had suited his needs.

But now back in Arkham, he thought about the lipstick a lot. About how Harley had ritually put on her face each day and the satisfaction on her face at the end of it. She'd said a few times she wondered what looks John could pull off, but he hadn't been sure if she meant it. He knew that most men didn't make themselves up like that. The more he thought about it, though, the more he wanted to try it again, try more.

At the very least, while figuring out your insides was one long interminable thing, making up your outside was fun with immediate results. Just holding the tacky gold lipstick tube, he felt giddy.

The shouting in the hall was within the norm, so neither he nor Dr. Leland had paid it much mind. Then a gunshot rang out and the shouts leaped to screams. After a shocked instant, Leland lurched toward the deadbolt, but the door swung open, knocking her to the ground. A burly man dressed in black tactical gear filled the doorway, a semi-automatic rifle crossing his chest. He glared down at Dr. Leland, then fixed his eyes on John. His scowl was obscured by his heavy brown beard.

"Here," he barked over his shoulder.

As Leland got to her feet, John set the makeup bin on the cushion beside him and moved to stand at her side. "Hey, do you mind?" he chuckled. "These people charge by the hour." 

The bearded man stepped forward, and John caught a glimpse of at least two other men standing guard in the hallway. His attention fell back on the gun, which didn't bother him that much, but was probably way too close to Dr. Leland. He tried to nudge her behind him, but she gripped his arm. "Who are you?" she demanded.

Again over his shoulder, the man threw an order. "Cuffs!"

"Beardo's kinda rude," John muttered to Leland.

She shushed him as one of the other men passed Beardo a pair of ziptie restraints. "What are you..."

Beardo handed them to her. "Put these on Doe."

"Tell me what you want. Maybe--"

He pointed the gun at her chest. "I don't repeat myself." He looked at John. "Hands behind your back."

"Really rude," John amended as he turned around.

Leland's hands trembled as she slipped the cuffs around his wrists. John heard the requisite zipping sounds, but the plastic loops felt loose. Beardo growled, "Tight, doc." 

John giggled as she pulled the zips tighter. "Clever try," he said to her as he turned back around.

"Doe is secure," Beardo said. He backed out of the office and gestured for John to step out. 

In there hall were a total of three other gunmen. Freckleface grabbed John by the cuffs, Birdnose trained his gun, and Baldy had another pair of cuffs. Otherwise, for the most part everyone had either escaped the area or shut themselves up in the other rooms, the exception being an orderly sprawled on the floor near the wing doors. A trickle of blood leaked from his stomach, and it was too far to see if he was breathing. In any case, Cash probably wouldn't give him a demerit for lying down on the job.

Leland stood in her doorway helplessly. "Please don't hurt him."

"You're coming with us," Beardo said.

Her mouth hung open. "Wh-what-- Ah!" she cried as Baldy yanked her into the hall.

"Don't worry," Beardo said as her wrists were bound. "If Doe behaves, this will all go smoothly."

"Really?" John exclaimed. "I get to leave the asylum but I'm still under psychiatric supervision?"

"You can thank your billionaire buddy. She's plan B."

"Hold on," John sneered. "You went after Bruce?"

Suddenly, finally, the fire alarm went off. The emergency lights flashed as the bell trilled.

"Let's go!" Beardo commanded over the sound.

John planted his feet and tried to jerk out of Freckleface's grip. "What happened to Bruce?" he growled.

The butt of Beardo's gun smashed into his temple and his vision flashed white. He heard Leland's shout over the alarm.

"Behave, clown," Beardo warned, leaning in close, "or next time it'll be the nice lady."

Tension locked up John's muscles, and he wondered if it was possible to choke someone to death on his own beard, if enough coarse curls were crammed down his gullet before the guns started going off.

But he could see Dr. Leland's tense shape out of the corner of his eye, could feel her watching him.

_... a number of civilian and officer casualties in the pursuit of 'the Joker'..._

Inhale. Smile.

When Freckleface pushed him forward, John started walking. Baldy steered Leland beside them, and Birdnose took up the rear.

"If we stop in the lobby," John yelled over the alarm to Beardo's back, "they've got some great pamphlets on nonviolent conflict resolution!"

* * *

It was not unusual for Bruce to be awakened by his phone's ringer instead of the alarm, since corporate business tended to start in the early morning rather than, say, lunchtime. In the cocoon of his sheets and comforter, he considered letting the call go to voicemail, until the previous evening's events came back to him. Gordon could very well have more questions about MacIntyre, or maybe information to share. Bruce dragged himself the edge of the bed and popped the charger cord from his phone so it could reach his ear. Blinking away drowsiness, he read the caller info. Not the GCPD.

Dread plunged in his gut. "Hello?" he answered.

"Mr. Wayne, this is Delilah Yearling from Arkham Asylum." Her voice was steady, in the way of someone very mindfully keeping her head. "I'm afraid there's no good way to say this..."


	3. Chilly Receptions

When Bruce's car screeched into the Arkham parking lot, an ambulance was quietly leaving. According to Tiffany's review of the emergency services frequencies, two others had already arrived at Gotham General before Bruce was even called. Tiffany now listened through the open line in his earpiece as he approached the asylum's front doors, weaving through haphazardly parked patrol cars. Delilah, in lavender scrubs, was smoking on the steps with two uniformed officers. She snuffed out her cigarette and waved for him to follow her into the lobby, where half a dozen cops interviewed asylum staff.

In the middle of the room, Gordon was speaking with Sergeant Montoya and an officer. He looked over as Bruce approached, saying wryly, "It's been so long, Wayne."

Bruce cut to the chase. "This can't be a coincidence."

"Highly doubtful."

The officer gestured for Delilah to come with him to her desk. As they walked away, he glared over his shoulder back at Bruce. In fact, just about every cop was shooting him unfriendly looks, including Montoya. Not that Bruce was surprised, given his well-publicized sympathies with the man who'd blown up their headquarters.

"What have you learned?" Bruce asked. "Anything else out of MacIntyre? Did they leave a message? Were you able to track the--"

"Wayne," Gordon said. "I can tell you what we know so far, but it's been an hour."

Bruce shook his head. "Of course. I know. I just..."

"He just wishes he could give his psycho buddy a reassuring hug," Montoya spat.

"Montoya," Gordon warned, and she stalked away. He gave Bruce an apologetic look but moved on to recapping the story told by the security feed and witnesses.

Around 9:00 am, three men had arrived in a laundry truck at the rear delivery ramp, pretending they were there for a pickup. They argued with a couple orderlies while a fourth man infiltrated the grounds and disabled the riot alarm, which sent an automatic alert to the police when it was activated. At the fourth man's signal, his friends used brute force to incapacitate the orderlies before getting their weapons and storming through the facilities wing to the lobby. Because Delilah knew that John was in therapy, the gunmen were able to head straight to Leland's office in one of the patient wings, which limited the number of people who even saw them. They locked everyone they came across in patient rooms and took walkie-talkies off orderlies before they could use them. The one orderly who came close to transmitting a warning had been shot, as had a nurse near him. The gunmen also collected ziptie cuffs off staff and used them for John and Leland, quelling John with a blow to the head when he got belligerent. At that point, a patient who'd managed to hide in a supply closet thought to pull the fire alarm, prompting an oblivious staff member elsewhere in the building to call the fire department.

The kidnappers escaped with their captives in the laundry truck before the first responders arrived. The truck had already been found abandoned in a parking garage downtown. The wounded orderly and nurse were rushed to the hospital in critical condition; several other employees with severe injuries followed.

Gordon had a few printouts of the intruders' faces from the security feed; more men Bruce didn't recognize. "These guys are relying on speed," Gordon mused as he flipped through the pictures. "They didn't plan this well enough to disable the cameras or the fire alarm, though maybe they knew that alarm wasn't linked up."

"The riot alarm automatically calls the cops," Bruce said, "but the fire alarm doesn't alert the fire department?"

"That's budget priorities for you."

After Harvey easily took tyrannical command of half the police force, Bruce had decided that increasing funds for the GCPD could, for one thing, improve the hiring practices so they'd end up with fewer officers willing to blow up the city. He'd also considered funding a renovation of Arkham, but after his father's manipulations it seemed, to put it lightly, in bad taste. Wouldn't donations from a Wayne be immediately suspect? Wouldn't people rightfully question his intentions? He'd decided to leave the asylum to the interim mayor, or the next official mayor, whoever would take charge of cleaning up the whole Children of Arkham mess.

So had been his thinking at the time. Short-sighted thinking. The most that happened with Arkham was they boarded off the catacombs and repaired the hole Vicki had blown through several floors.

He needed to reflect on this later.

"My first thought was Waller, overreacting to the court proceedings," Gordon said, "but there's no reason she'd be sloppy."

Not to mention her thugs tended to wear collars. And she definitely wouldn't have sent just one man after Bruce.

Gordon went on. "I've got people interviewing Doe's friends, but I don't see how they could have even pooled enough money to hire these guys. The job is sloppy, but their equipment looks top grade." Bruce frowned at this theory, but before he could question it, Gordon called to Montoya, "What's the word on letters?"

Montoya brought over a blonde woman she'd been interviewing nearby. "Apparently not much."

The knees of the woman's jeans were soaked with blood, evidently someone else's. The nametag on her blue Arkham polo read "Hannah." She shrugged apologetically. "He might've known someone was coming, but if he planned it, it wasn't by mail. All the outgoing gets inspected and John never sent anything."

"You think John orchestrated this?" Bruce blurted out.

Montoya shot him an impatient look and said to Hannah, "We've already got the threats, but what about other incoming mail?"

"Well," Hannah replied grimly, "after you filter out the letters telling him, uh, how to die, what you've got left are kooky love notes, proclamations that the Agency framed him for everything, and nasty tirades. And all that isn't, you know, 'conducive to recovery' so it doesn't get passed on."

"Does anything?"

Hannah sucked on her cheek as she thought. "The less kooky love notes. The more compassionate 'come to Jesus' stuff. The anti-Agency letters that aren't just spiraling conspiracy theories. You'll have to check his room to see if he kept anything, but from what I remember he always told us to toss it."

Bruce frowned. John never talked about this. "Seems odd to let him get mail from random strangers."

Hannah's expression was on the patient end. "Doc Leland isn't ecstatic about it either, but you can't just withhold all of people's mail from them. They got rights." She looked back to Montoya and gestured toward one of the nonpatient wings. "We usually get early delivery, if you want to see what's in today?"

Montoya agreed, and Bruce once again had one fewer pair of eyes boring a hole into him.

"Those guys bashed John in the head," he said to Gordon. "You're really suggesting--"

"Montoya is suggesting. More likely is that a fan, in the GMHA or otherwise, wanted to break him out." Gordon moved to the front desk, where Delilah stood watching her printer work. "That Doe's visitor log?"

"From when he was recommitted until now," she said. "I don't think it'll be enlightening. Doe's only visitors were his lawyers and Mr. Wayne here."

Gordon thanked her and turned to Bruce. "Dennis Krasinski isn't the type to scheme, and it doesn't seem he's spoken to Doe since Dumfree took over. Dumfree has a backbone, but..." His eyes snapped to a point over Bruce's shoulder. "Speak of the devil."

Joanne Dumfree, laden with her purse and laptop bag, marched up to them from the swinging entrance doors. She gave Bruce a quick nod before turning to Gordon. "You may not be happy to see me, Commissioner, but a couple of your people were kind enough to let me tag along."

Considering that the officers in the lobby looked just as happy to see her as they were to see Bruce, it seemed she was omitting an amount of badgering.

"The GCPD is happy to help where it can," Gordon replied hollowly.

"Where is my client, Gordon?"

"The investigation is in its infancy, Ms. Dumfree."

"And the clock is ticking. If you think this city is coping with a legal mess now--"

"I assure you," Gordon said steadily, "we are doing everything in our power to safely recover Doe and Leland."

"You can count on the Commissioner," Bruce broke in. "He's a by-the-book man."

Gordon's lips pressed together in a thin line. "I appreciate the vote of confidence."

Joanne glanced between them, her gaze ever skeptical. "I know you have John's best interests in mind, Mr. Wayne, but I can't say the same for a police force that is still rebuilding a precinct."

"Then be happy that the good doctor is with him," Montoya's voice rang out. She'd returned to the lobby, the trip to the mail center evidently fruitless.

Joanne's eyes flashed. "Is that a remark you want on the record, Sergeant?"

Montoya came forward, and Gordon immediately stepped between them. There was a storm of noise as he tried to mediate and the two women exchanged barbs. The officers looked on, muttering to each other, some making rude gestures behind Joanne's back. Bruce took the opportunity to slip unnoticed past the gate to the patient wings. If he took the left corridor, he could get to Leland's office, but he could see more cops down that way. The right corridor went to the wing with John's room.

"Going to check John's things," Bruce muttered, walking quickly and quietly.

Tiffany's voice came through his earpiece. "You think maybe he did know?"

"No," Bruce said, knowing he sounded short, "but if he kept any friendly letters, we can get a useful name."

"Dumfree could've taken messages back and forth between him and the GMHA."

"But what would breaking John out achieve? Frank has championed rehabilitation for months now. And John..." Last week, Bruce had made the mistake of mentioning the increase in street vendors selling unauthorized Batman merchandise, and found himself promising to bring John a pair of socks. "He hasn't been acting like a man about to escape."

"It's as good a theory as any." The clacking of keys sounded in the background. "The computer has pinged on a bunch of data. I'm going to sort through it all, but I'll leave the line open."

All but one of the room doors were shut, with the patients under lockdown during the investigation. Some of the hatches were open, letting out curious gazes, but no one seemed to care that Bruce was an unauthorized presence.

The open door was John's, but strangely, the room didn't look like it had been searched yet. Bruce paused at the threshold. He already knew that John was in the same room that he himself had woken up in two years ago. John had been delighted. _I get to stay where we first met!_ The novelty had to have faded by now. The kidnapping must feel like a field trip.

Bruce could almost smile, if he didn't know all too well John's potential for volatility. As far as he knew, John's ability to control violent urges had progressively improved. His visiting privileges had not been suspended again, and once the cuffs came off, they stayed off. Dr. Leland remained reserved about specifics, but whenever Bruce spoke with her, she seemed satisfied about John's treatment. But Arkham was a controlled environment. At this point, it was hard to say how John would handle being unceremoniously dragged out into the city.

Anger started to heat up Bruce's chest. Whoever these scum were, if they provoked John into a backslide...

He needed to get to work before someone came looking for him.

There was too little time to toss the neatly made bed, but he lifted the thin, lumpy mattress, then checked the metal frame itself. Nothing under either. He moved on to the dresser under the window. On top sat the selfie of John and Batman on the GCPD roof, enclosed in a smooth plastic frame with no glass. Nothing hidden in the backing. A dog-eared book on Zhuangzi sat beside it, and he flipped through the pages. Nothing stuck inside. At the back right corner sat a caddy of toiletries, including the nontoxic lotion, shampoo, and conditioner Bruce had bought after John complained about the quality of Arkham's generics. Nothing unexpected. He moved onto the drawers. The top held underwear and socks, and the middle stored patient scrubs and John's rainbow of undershirts. Nothing hidden among the clothes.

When Bruce opened the bottom drawer, his eyes first landed on a stack of greeting cards, all as cheesy as he could stomach. One sent after John's relapse said, "Hope you're back on your feet soon!" with an illustration of a toppled turtle. A Christmas card read "Fleece Navidad!" above a row of sheep wearing scarves and pom-pom hats. That one had been given with with a purple cashmere throw that was lining the bottom of the drawer for the summer. 

Bruce had asked when to bring a birthday card, but John just shrugged and said he had no date of birth on record. Bruce pointed out that he still got older year by year and could pick any date he wanted, but John seemed unbothered. _"Is it really that important? Which is more significant: the day you were born or that day you ended up in Crime Alley?"_

That was followed by a chat about avoiding painful topics, per Bruce's promise to Dr. Leland.

John did make a card for Bruce's birthday in February. He'd handed it over sheepishly, apologizing that he couldn't do more. On the front John had drawn a doodle of a very serious-looking bat amongst the words "Hope your birthday is great..." When Bruce flipped it open, the words continued, "to the last bite!" under a now happy bat sucking icing from a slice of cake. It was signed, "Fangs for being my best friend -- John." Bruce kept it in his bedside table.

Next to the cards were some photographs: a candid shot of Bruce chatting with a table of employees at the company holiday party, a copy of his graduation photo with Alfred, and a press release photo of Tiffany leading a presentation on drones. (That one had been something of a gamble, but he was happy to see John had kept it.) On top of a few books sat a box of crayons and a small paper pad. No letter had been tucked in the box or between the doodles.

He didn't recognize the last item in the drawer: a dark blue bundle stowed in the corner. When he pulled it out, it unrolled, revealing nothing but a knitted scarf. Why would John need this?

"J-man is a quick learner."

An orderly stood in the doorway. His nametag read "Marco," and he held an ice pack over his left eye.

"I thought my grandma was a fast knitter, but he'd put her to shame. The art classes only last so long, so he had to get it done before the supplies were gone."

"I didn't realize he went outside enough to need it," Bruce said.

Marco looked at him like he was stupid. "It's not for him, man."

Oh. _Oh._

"He can't really buy you anything, and you can buy everything anyway. Homemade stuff is the only option at that point." Marco limped over and set the ice pack on the dresser, revealing his puffy purple eye socket. He took the scarf and rolled it back up. "Pretend you never saw it. He was holding onto it for Christmas." He tucked it back in its corner, closed the drawer, and replaced the ice pack as he straightened. He fixed Bruce in a deadpan look. "He said the one thing you couldn't afford was a cold."

Bruce managed a short laugh. "He isn't wrong."

Marco gestured with his free arm to the door. "I appreciate you made less of a mess than the cops, but you can't be in here, Mr. Wayne."

So the room had been searched, but Marco cleaned it up. "I'm sorry," Bruce said as they walked into the hallway. "I guess it seemed the best place to worry."

"We got lots of rooms for that," Marco said.

An unmistakeable voice rang out. "Well, well, that really is Bruce Wayne I hear!"

Bruce readied himself. From one of the open door hatches not far up the corridor, Harvey watched them draw closer. He regarded Bruce coolly, neither happy nor angry, which in itself seemed like a trap.

"I gotta get you back--" Marco started.

"Just a moment." Bruce stood a few feet from Harvey's door with his hands in his pockets. "Good to see you're safe," he said.

It looked like Harvey had dragged his chair over so he could sit at the hatch. He rested his wrists on the ledge. "Of course. I wasn't the target, was I?"

"Still, they came through with guns."

Harvey's eyebrows shot up too far. "Oh, dear, not that!" he gasped, then laughed lowly. Bruce's heart sank.

"Honestly, Harvey, I'm glad you're okay."

"No, you're sad they took your bestest little buddy." Harvey snorted. "And I thought I put you on a pedestal."

When Harvey's darker side took over, Bruce was one of his least favorite people. That side of Harvey was seen most often these days, according to John. Or rather, _not_ seen, given how often his behavior got him confined to his room, but who'd be happy after a judge put them in Arkham's care for the foreseeable future? So John mostly saw Harvey in passing when he was taken to therapy or, if he hadn't flown into a rage in a few days, the cafeteria. There was a point a couple months earlier when he seemed to be regaining control and received rec room privileges, and John tried to chat. Naturally, he brought up Bruce right away, and but even Harvey's milder side shut down. John didn't get another chance; a couple days later, Harvey had a messy breakdown when he tried to pocket a checkers piece to replace his coin.

"I'd like to visit you, too." Bruce had made this offer in a couple letters during the past year, both unanswered.

"Glad coming to see Doe reminded you I exist."

Bruce knew he should let the comment roll off his back-- and instantly failed. "When a friend sets your house on fire, almost kills you, and terrorizes the city, you tend to let them cool off."

"Yet when a friend blows up a bridge, almost kills you, and terrorizes the city, you come running." Harvey sneered. "Come on, Bruce, what has that clown got on you?"

"Mr. Wayne," Marco said, placing his hand on Bruce's shoulder, "I really need you back in the lobby."

Bruce tore his eyes away from Harvey and let Marco steer him away.

"Gotta be something good," Harvey taunted at his back.

After a moment, Marco offered, "Some need more time than others."

Bruce didn't respond. Harvey didn't need to dredge up guilt for him, since he'd hardly submerged it in the first place. And while Harvey was wrong about the reason Bruce came here, it was a fair point that he treated Harvey and John differently.

But John _was_ different, even if Bruce had known Harvey much longer. He'd gotten to know Harvey gradually over several years, the way you would with most anyone, but Harvey had never let him in very far, with rare and nondescript references to his therapy. John was an open book, one without a cover, disclosing right off how he felt overwhelmed by the freedom outside Arkham, expecting absolute trust immediately. Bruce had found himself wanting to reciprocate the best he could, especially given the number of times John had gone ahead and put himself at risk for Bruce's welfare. It was hard not to compare that to Harvey distancing himself from Bruce for the campaign, even if Bruce understood on a tactical level. Then there was the fact that Harvey had never suspected Bruce's double life, while John had a nose for facades and figured it out within a week. And when it came to Bruce's vigilantism, Harvey saw Batman's methods as an efficient means to an end. John's perspective was more intuitive, more hands-on... almost more intimate.

But now was not the time to interrogate that thought.

(It never was.)

Back in the lobby, the row between Montoya and Joanne had dissipated. The two were now on opposite sides of the room, the sergeant talking to officers by the patient wing gate and Joanne engrossed in her phone by the front doors. If anyone noticed Bruce's reappearance, perhaps Marco's accompaniment made his absence seem legitimate.

Marco was pulled away to review his statement, and Bruce returned to Gordon, who was going through a stack of forms at Delilah's desk.

"I don't think there's much you can do here," Gordon said, and he used his chin to indicate Joanne. "But Dumfree wants to talk to you." He shook his head. "I know I used to be that idealistic, but Jesus, where did I get the energy?"

"Probably from the idealism," Bruce said.

"If they could brew that in coffee, I'd be set." The humor dropped, and he looked at Bruce seriously. "We'll find them. Go keep busy."

"I plan on it."

When Bruce joined Joanne at the entrance, she asked politely, "Would you mind if I hitched a ride? To anywhere back on the grid. I want to check in with my father before I get back to court."

"No problem," Bruce said. "I'll take you right to the Village, actually, if you don't mind me tagging along? I'd like to meet John's other friends."

"Sure. Thanks, Bruce. I'm nearing my ride-share budget."

It was not the first time he'd driven her somewhere; she'd asked a couple of other times after meeting him to discuss John's case. Typically she relied on public transportation to get around, but Arkham was not easily accessible by subway or bus.

They didn't talk much on the way back into the city proper. Joanne was engrossed in her phone-- emails, texts, notes, schedules-- and occasionally flipped through a pen-scrawled notebook she'd pulled out of her laptop bag. Her focus and dedication was all too familiar, and Bruce wondered, not for the first time, how things would be if he'd taken a different tack for his mission. 

_"You say you don't like the work," John said in the quiet tone he used when he knew he was veering into a subject too sensitive for the visiting lounge. "But that's such a broad thing to say that it seems true. Sure, you don't like the reason you're out there, why you feel like you have to do it, that other people push you to use force. But when you get to use it, isn't it a rush? Immediate and satisfying, justice acting through you... If you didn't like that, it would be easy to stop."_

_When John got like this, his eyes almost glowing, it felt like his butterfly knife was leaving a fine trail down the inside of Bruce's forearm, with just enough pressure to bring out the vibrant color beneath the skin._

_"There are people who need what I do," Bruce said. "I have to choose to keep going."_

_"Okay," John chuckled, "but is it really a hard choice, when you chose the options first?"_

_Bruce finally changed the subject._

"You can probably find street parking around Finger Ave, this time of day," Joanne said.

Bruce hadn't realized they'd made it to the neighborhood. "Okay."

After they parked, they walked two blocks to the Gotham Mental Health Alliance's meeting venue. Many of the members had been regulars at the Stacked Deck, but the manager didn't want to be associated with the group, so they'd moved to a different bar on the Village's west side, All's Well. It was owned by member Rosaline Portico, who also rented out the tiny apartments above.

Bruce had done his due diligence in researching the GMHA's members, and that extended to Rosaline's renters, some of whom he recognized as he and Joanne passed them on the sidewalk. They were busking for cash. A middle-aged man sat on a stool playing a dented saxophone. Across the street, a younger man juggled soda bottles half filled with water, occasionally prompting passersby to try. Near the entrance of the bar, a girl who looked high-school age stood at a lop-sided easel, sketching an embracing couple. A woman not much older stood on top of a crate, posing in a long gray-blue gown. Her skin and hair had been colored to match, and she didn't move a millimeter. Her hands were clasped under her chin and she swooned to the side, and everyone who walked by fell under her adoring gaze. After Bruce passed, he felt a compulsion to look back; in only a second she'd changed position. She stared at him beseechingly, one hand splayed over her heart and the opposite arm reaching out to him. Again, she was stock still. He made a note to bring some cash for her bucket the next time he was here.

Joanne had already gone inside, and when he followed she was halfway across the room, which wasn't saying much for the size of the place. It was small, with just a dozen two-top tables crammed in front of a tiny raised stage at the back of the room. The bar ran along the left side, under a staircase up to the apartments.

Half the tables were occupied by GMHA members listening to Frank Dumfree speak from the stage. Willie Deever and Rosaline stood to the side. The full roster of the group was about a hundred fifty people, all who'd either personally experienced the city's counseling and substance abuse services or had a family member who did. Frank had lost Joanne's mother to depression and heroin addiction about fifteen years ago. Willie was an alcholic; he'd managed to maintain sobriety since he was released from prison a couple months ago. Rosaline had posttraumatic stress disorder from a long (and thankfully long-ended) abusive relationship.

"We don't know if John's abduction has anything to do with us," Frank was saying, "but if you get wind of anything, you let me know." He stepped down to embrace his daughter. "Any good news, kid?"

"The Commissioner said they're on it," she replied as Bruce came up behind her.

The group responded with eyerolls, shaking heads, and resigned expressions. Evidently, the GCPD had not impressed when they came by.

"They are taking this seriously," Bruce said. No one looked encouraged, and he moved on. "No breakthroughs on this end?"

"I bet it was the cops who did it!" exclaimed one member, a young man wearing an anarchy t-shirt.

"Or someone from City Hall," Rosaline added.

"You'll need hard evidence to push that," Bruce said. "Has the GMHA received threats about this?"

"Yeah, sure, we got threats," Willie said. "'Bout us. Not directly against John."

"Did the police find them credible?"

A collective titter came from the group. "I'm sure they looked into them real well," Rosaline said.

Bruce was confident Gordon had directed the force to do so. The follow-through, yeah, he was less sure about.

"It's gonna be the Batman who finds John," said Frank decidedly.

"Batman's in league with the cops," the young man said.

"Batman saved my sorry life," Willie snapped. "He may work with the cops, but if they got John he ain't gonna stand for it." This was quite the turnaround from what Willie used to spout about Batman. Then he turned to Bruce and demanded, "What are you doing about this, Wayne?"

"Leaving it to the people who know how to help," Bruce replied.

"You could be using your clout."

"For what?" Frank interjected. "Lay off, Willie. Wayne is good people. He's stuck by John to help him get better despite all the garbage in the media."

Willie folded his arms and harrumphed. Bruce still preferred this atmosphere over what he got from Gordon's officers.

"You know," Frank went on, "if someone wanted John out of their hair, they could've had him offed in Arkham. Somebody wants him for something."

In Bruce's ear, Tiffany's voice suddenly sang, "I think I know whoooo..."

"Dad, I know we're all worried," Joanne said, "but speculating isn't going to help."

Bruce nodded in agreement. "I'm going keep busy," he said to the group, "but I'll be in touch if I hear anything."

Frank clapped him on the shoulder. "Understood. Thanks, man."

Back on the street, after passing the human statue, now weeping into her hands, Bruce asked Tiffany, "What do you have?"

"I'm checking a few threads, but meet me in the lab."

* * *

The ride in the laundry truck had an excitement to it, since they were fresh into the kidnapping, but after John and Dr. Leland were switched to a larger boxtruck, the situation was just plain uncomfortable and B-O-R-I-N-G. There were no windows in the cargo area, and a single white light was installed in the ceiling. Everyone sat on the floor, John and Leland next to each other in the very back, and Freckleface and Birdnose across from each other by the rollup door. The abductors were not interested in John's casual conversation; he was threatened with another smash to the head if he didn't stop talking. But hey, a scuffle would have been _something_ , and John was certain he could handle them. He'd probably be a mess afterward, but he'd be out of this dumb truck.

If he was alone, that was. Whoever had told these guys to get collateral was definitely no idiot. If Bruce had slipped up, John would be fighting alongside him again. But with Leland...

When John had dragged Waller from the chaos of the crumbling GCPD, he was so frustrated, so angry, and everything moved in flashes. He just wanted to get away, get Waller back to his hideout at Ace for a little chat. He knew Batman must be fine, but he didn't think of the officers. Didn't think about where the jokerangs landed, if anyone was in the way of the car, if the explosives he threw would be more than just a distraction. He hadn't thought much at all. Moved on autopilot. Like in the funhouse. Too much like the funhouse.

Dr. Leland would not get a funhouse death. Not after all the help she'd given him. She was a lot like Bruce, giving up her life to help others and avoiding credit for it. It wasn't until five years after he met her that John learned she was divorced and had a kid.

The chase victims probably didn't deserve a funhouse death either. "No one can make you feel sad," Dr. Leland had explained, "but do you understand the consequences? Just like when you were trapped by the agents, or when you landed in the water under the bridge, you wanted to keep living. That's what those people felt." And they also had whole lives John would never know about. Friends and family who couldn't see them again, goals that would never be reached, possessions now owned by no one. Holes left in the place of people.

If this day went sideways, John wondered if his absence would leave a hole in Bruce. Since the hole from Bruce's parents was all-encompassing, how could there be a place for another one? Maybe the existing chasm would drive deeper. That sounded awful, but all the same John hoped it was the case. The idea of vanishing entirely from Bruce's life made his stomach hurt.

John felt the truck roll to a stop. The sound of the cab doors opening and shutting came through the walls, followed by the sound of boots tromping gravel. The cargo door rolled up partway, and Beardo gestured for his goons to come out. John and Leland were shut up in the truck alone.

Stretching his legs, and trying to stretch his aching arms, John sighed. "This vacation sucks. Don't even get scenery."

"Still no idea who these men are?" Leland asked.

"Maybe they're a cult of homicidal truck enthusiasts..." John noticed she was peering at the spot on his hairline where Beardo had whacked him. "Am I bleeding?"

"No, a little swollen. I'm just hoping you don't have a concussion."

"Aw, Joanie. I'm glad you care."

"Of course I do. And please continue to address me as Dr. Leland."

"You're out of the office! Let your hair down, like you're out on the town with the girls!"

She sighed and rested her head against the metal behind them. "My 'girls' don't call me Joanie either."

"They call you Doctor?"

"John, it's important that you understand we are in danger."

"Oh, sure, I get that." He shrugged. "We just have to play it cool until Bruce finds us."

"How is Bruce going to find us?"

John giggled at his slip. "Oh, you know, rich people resources. But, actually, yeah, Batman will probably get here first."

That was exciting at least. Batman to the rescue! Bruce had saved him before, grabbing Waller's gun on the bridge, but that had been so quick and out of costume. This situation was going to take investigation, pursuit, and hopefully a wild, cape-swishing brawl. And all this fuss for John-- and Leland, but all this was only happening because of something to do with him.

It was fun to picture the concern, the focus on Bruce's face as he tracked them down. More than fun, it was nice. It was always nice to realize Bruce was thinking about him, when he brought gifts or mentioned that something during the day reminded him of John. It meant some element of John existed out in the world, and maybe he really could follow after it.

Leland focused on this sometimes. "Bruce is very important to you," she'd say, or "Do you worry because you think your relationship will change again?" She was never more direct, but John could tell what she was thinking, and he didn't take the session there. Who _wouldn't_ gush about attention from Bruce, even not knowing how the supposed playboy spent his nights? He was classically tall, dark, and handsome, and against all odds he paid special attention to John, of all people, after everything.

Who would push their luck?

"I don't think it's even noon yet," Leland said.

John snorted. "I know Batman has a brand, but it's not like he's a vampire. I'm pretty sure. Definitely sure." He had a thought. "Hey, what if I'm part vampire? And I was cast out from the brood for being a tainted halfling?"

She sighed but pulled up a smile. "I'd say the evidence is thin with just your skin tone. You don't have fangs, you have a reflection, and you told me you visited a church with no ill effects. Complaining about the excessive garlic on Pasta Wednesday is probably not enough."

The door rumbled all the way up and sunlight flooded in. They reflexively averted their eyes, and after a few seconds John could make out Beardo gesturing to them as he grunted, "Let's go, let's go."

They climbed out. John noticed that all four men now wore down coats with furry trim, plus thick gloves. The truck was parked next to some dilapidated factory surrounded by tall weeds. In the background, across the river, Gotham sprawled across its islands. This was the furthest John had been from the city.

Leland looked up at the fanciful sign atop the building, which read "Snowy's" in faded script. "The old ice cream company?" she said.

Freckleface had two extra coats. Instead of removing the cuffs so John and Leland could wear them properly, he fitted the coats over their shoulders.

John squinted at the blazing sun. "You fellas know it's summer, right?"

Beardo yanked John's hood over his head, and it almost covered his eyes. He had no time to complain as they were ushered toward the building. A large set of corroding aluminum shutters in the brick wall in front of them was closed; they entered the factory through a door on the right. Inside, icy air blasted John's bare face and his front, and he decided the coat was A-OK, though he really wanted it zipped.

"I'm not sure this environment meets OSHA standards," he said as Beardo lead the way down the hall.

Behind him, Baldy said, "What's good for the boss is good for you."

"What, you work for the abominable..." John trailed off.

"What's wrong?" Leland asked softly.

John broke into giggles. "Remember what I said about being cool?"

Beardo stopped at a door on the left and held it open. They walked into what used to be a large warehouse for frozen goods but was now an ice cavern, cold enough that everyone's breath formed wispy clouds. Icicles hung from the vents of the freezing units up along the ceiling, and sheets of ice coated the walls for good measure. Empty metal shelving had been pushed to the sides of the room, so in the middle of the space was just a table.

At that table sat a blue-skinned man in a black jumpsuit, bent over papers and books and machinery, working on something with his bare hands. He looked up as they approached.

John strode past Beardo to greet Freeze with his best smile. "Victor! Long time, no see!"

Freeze stood up as John stopped in front of him, and he pulled on the hefty glove he'd been tinkering with. John hadn't seen Freeze without the red goggles before, and now he got to see his dark, furious eyes up close as Freeze grabbed him by the throat. John was slammed onto the table, the air bursting from his lungs and pain lancing through his arms. The coat managed to come with him, but it fell off his shoulders as he reflexively jerked. Papers fluttered to the floor.

"Yes," Freeze said, leaning in close, "I last saw you running away, through a fog of infectious orange vapor, not long after you bludgeoned me to save the Batman."

"No hard feelings, right?" John choked out.

The glove pressed harder, the freezing jet on the palm so cold that it already numbed John's skin. "You helped the Batman, and you remain friends with the man who betrayed us, who gave up the location of our lair to the people who took my Nora."

"To be fair," John managed, "you did try to turn Bruce into an icicle."

Freeze turned his head to look at Leland, then Beardo. "What happened with Wayne?"

"He was a harder get than we thought," Beardo replied. "Cops got Patty."

"I told you that man is more skilled than the press would believe," Freeze said, clearly aggravated.

"If you want better planning, you give more time," Beardo retorted.

Freeze sneered as he turned back to John. "I'll have to deal with Wayne at a later date."

"You know," John rasped, "Bruce said if _he_ had time, he would've gone back to the station--"

With a growl, Freeze lifted John and tossed him to the floor. "Do I look like a man who cares about what-ifs?"

It was a rough fall, but John enjoyed breathing freely and sitting up without his weight on his arms. "What you look is alive," he said.

Freeze stood over him. "I've had to maintain an even colder temperature than before so my body can stave off the virus's effects."

"But you already needed the suit to live, so that was good news, right?" At the narrowing of Freeze's eyes, John jumped to the point. "Sooooo what can I do for you?"

"You're going to help me retrieve my wife from the Agency."

John grimaced. "Uh, my lawyer says I shouldn't have any contact with those people without her?"

"I don't care about your legal problems. The Agency has been using Nora to keep me in line. Every day serving their whims is a day I am unable to find her a cure." The icy gaze lost a little frost.

John managed to stand and wondered if Freeze would put the coat back on him if he asked nicely. He looked over at Leland, who seemed to be trying to hide under her hood as she stared at them with wide, worried eyes. "Okay," he said to Freeze, "but it looks like you already have enough grunts?"

"You have information."

"Maybe it was only covered on local news, but I've been in Arkham for, like, a while now. What would I know about Nora?"

"Harley said you had a knack for retaining information. Do you recall Mr. Jervis Tetch?"

"No?"

Leland spoke up nervously. "You knew him briefly, John. He was discharged after just a month."

"Yes, about five years ago," Freeze said. "A brilliant man with an obsession with a particular children's story."

John made a face as he realized who they meant. "That Hatter guy? Brilliant?"

"The obsession often became debilitating, but when Jervis was focused, his work was sound. I believe he can help me get Nora back with little incident. The equipment needed to maintain her cryostasis is considerable and quite sensitive. Bursting in would no doubt start a firefight, and I can't have anything happen to Nora.

"I attempted to contact Tetch at his home upstate, but it appears to have been abandoned for some time. I know he has a safehouse here in Gotham where he works on his most sensitive research, but he never told me the location." From the table, Freeze picked up a black and white composition book with peeling black binding and splitting edges. "In my search for clues, I came across this old journal." Freeze opened it to a marked page and read:

> Mind is much clearer now, thanks to Arkham, despite its awful atmosphere. Most of the patients are gibbering fools, no doubt, but I can't say better for myself when the looking glass beckons. I fear I may have given up secrets, but there is no way to be sure without compromising them further.
> 
> I recall vividly a visit from the Cheshire Cat. His coloring had gone ghost white, but the teeth in that mad grin will gleam in any gloom. I told him I would host the Queen of Hearts for tea if I could be freed from her prison. I may have related the location of my hideaway, but that is when the memory fades, though the Cat's laughter still rings clear as day. But is it a memory? Or was it a dream?

Freeze closed the journal and looked at John.

"Oh, come on," John said. "That could be anyone."

* * *

There was someone new in the rec room, alone at one of the tables, staring at the checkerboard that had been abandoned the evening before. Even sitting down, he looked short, and the way he hung his head didn't help, ratty golden brown hair hanging over his face. He jerked up suddenly, showing his most prominent features: a bulbous nose and an overbite accentuated by prominent front teeth. His eyes darted around with a familiar paranoia.

John immediately sat down in the opposite chair. "Heya," he greeted with a wide smile.

The man recoiled but didn't scuttle off. He sat frozen, staring at John's face.

"There is a severe epidemic of impoliteness in this place," John huffed. "You could at least introduce yourself."

"Y-you know very well who I am!" the man said shakily.

"Pretty sure I'd remember you." Not many jittery squirrels in Arkham.

"Maybe you wouldn't," the man said, suddenly pensive. "In a place so topsy-turvy, where even Time stops at a quarrel..."

"I guess your meds haven't kicked in yet."

"Do you remember the Duchess?" The man gnawed on his lip. "If they've taken her head?"

Beheadings? Now that was interesting! "Do go on."

"I suppose you wouldn't worry. No risk for you, vanishing and reappearing as you like."

John tittered. "I wish!" Imagine what he could do with that trick.

"It won't be long before the Queen gets the Hatter's head on the block," the man said, rubbing his throat.

"What's a hatter?"

The man folded his arms and scoffed. "I make hats, of course!"

John mirrored the pose. "A banker doesn't make banks. You could work inside a giant trilby for all I know."

Hatter considered the point and nodded. "Well, I won't work anywhere with no head to put my wares on." He wrung his hands. "I shouldn't be here. The King should have issued pardons now. He always does."

"A bribe has worked for some people," John replied.

Hatter drew into himself. "Maybe that's it. The Queen may desire a gift, a show of apology. Flowers? No, no, I have no red roses... Oh!" His eyes lit up. "Tea, yes! We'll have to wash up the places, of course, so I'll need to badger Time for leniency, but a grand tea party in her honor, with the best bread and butter..."

"I don't know if a woman into decapitation would give it up for tea time."

Hatter seemingly didn't hear as he contemplated logistics. When he did look up, he said, "The guards won't listen to me, from the twos to the tens. Could you tell her the way?" Without waiting, he continued:

> In a hamlet of goats where none is sane,  
>  From where ships hand out foreign stock  
>  Runs the trail o'er which the monarch does reign  
>  And the Gryphon defends his clock.
> 
> This lane grows blossoms who defend and shade  
>  The parties beneath their garden,  
>  Hidden from the reach of the vorpal blade  
>  Wielded in place of a pardon.

John wasn't often bewildered. "Uh... so that's uptown?"

"The Queen can take any way she likes, to be sure, since they're all hers, but that way is best."

"I'll let her know if she stops by," John said, repeating the poem in his head. How weird to have that all ready. Maybe it did lead to a real place.

"You're one to do as you please, but it would please if you did, so you would do it."

"Did you tick off the Queen by reciting gobbledlygook?"

"I sang a song, and she accused me of murder," Hatter said miserably.

John considered this, hand on his chin. "Think of it this way: in the sentencing, you made the cut after all." He burst into laughter.

* * *

"Come to think of it," John said, "we did have a chat, and he might've mentioned something about a hideyhole."

"And?" Freeze said impatiently.

John noisily cleared his throat, then recited the poem word for word.

Despite having the information he requested, Freeze did not look happy. "How are we supposed to derive a location from nonsense?"

"Mostly with a lot of boring city books."

Freeze blinked. "You know the address?"

John shrugged. "I had the time. Buuuut..." He rocked back and forth on his heels. "I don't think I should say, since I'm pretty sure that info is keeping us alive."

"I have no interest in this woman taking Wayne's place," Freeze responded. "And as for you, you have another skill I must utilize."

"Wow, if I'd known you thought this highly of me, maybe I wouldn't have walloped you."

* * *

In the hidden lab at Wayne Enterprises, Tiffany had left two things on the monitors. The first was an email from Avesta:

> I was able to get in touch with my contact, and he says there are rumors that an asset has gone AWOL. He was able to verify that resources have been sent up to Anchorage, where he believes they've been holding Nora.

The second was a police report from two nights ago, reporting a suspicious person at a condominium complex in Robinson Park. A resident reported a man looking into his window. It had been too dark for a detailed description, but the unit was once occupied by Nora and Victor Fries.

Bruce's heart rate sped up. If Freeze had resurfaced... If he had John...

_Jagged chunks of frozen limbs, scattered along the disused tracks._

Tiffany emerged from the elevator, tapping on her tablet. "Sorry, had to attend a staff meeting." She nodded at the screens. "You read it?"

He nodded. "Explains the attempted abduction, the off-season coat."

"That's what I thought when that algorithm picked up the police report," she said. "Based on what you told me, Freeze has to be salty about you and John betraying the Pact, and he doesn't know you're Batman. I mean, it's thin, but it was the best lead so far, so I touched base with Iman"

"But if his wife is all the way in Anchorage, why would he be here yanking John out of Arkham? He's putting her at risk by fleeing to start with."

"Right, that wouldn't be in character for him, but I had a thought. When you tried to track down the Frieses before, Avesta didn't have much info for you, but today she was able to learn about Alaska real quick. What if it's a decoy? I mean, it's kind of on the nose, right? Sending a woman who needs to stay frozen so far up north? A guy like Freeze, with his unique needs, if he did run off it'd be easier to catch him if he wasted time going the wrong place."

"Unless he figured out that they never moved her very far to begin with..."

"With disgruntled people in the Agency, there's lots of ways he could've gotten the real location. And given he's dedicated so much of himself to keeping Nora alive, I think he's desperate enough to take a risky bluff. Nora is Waller's only leverage over an exceptional mind. He may be counting on her not wanting to give up that leverage right away, especially if it's an innocent sick woman. She'll want to at least remind him of the threat-- but he can't be reminded if they can't find him."

"But he's still working against Waller's patience."

"There's also this." A few more taps and the view on the monitor changed to an overhead thermal map of Gotham. Various spots glowed in reds, yellows, greens, and blues. "This is a view from a satellite used by STAR Labs. Lots of cold spots for Freeze to be, sure. He could just hole up in a meat freezer if he wanted to. But check this out over here."

The screen zoomed on a primarily blue spot in the northeast outskirts of the city, across the river. "The old Snowy's factory," Bruce said.

"It's been shut down for years and the property is still on the market. So unless someone else is interested in abandoned commercial-grade freezers, I think there's a good chance that's where Freeze is-- and where John and Dr. Leland were taken. For whatever reason."

Bruce was already headed to the elevator. "I'll find out."

"Should we warn Waller?"

He hesitated. "The agents in the city must already be on alert. If she knows for certain Freeze wasn't fooled, it just puts Nora in danger."

Tiffany gave him a look. "And if you find the opportunity to steal Nora away, it'll be a bonus?"

"Are you comfortable leaving an effectively comatose woman as a tool for blackmail?"

"When did this job start being about what I find comfortable?" Tiffany replied. "You don't even know if we have the resources to store and monitor a cryogenic pod. What, are we gonna leave it on the doorstep of the building with a cryptic note?"

"That's not the worst idea." He pressed the up button and the doors opened. "If it becomes necessary, we'll contact the Agency, but hold off for now."

"You're worried about John, too," she said. "You think Waller could use the situation as an excuse to pull something."

"Is there any reason she wouldn't?"

"No, but just keep in mind that she's already pissed at you. Her attitude's not going to improve when she finds out we didn't loop her in."

"No, it won't," Bruce agreed as he stepped into the elevator. "Be ready to message Gordon. I'll need backup once I get a handle on the situation." The door slid shut.

As he ascended, his earpiece beeped back to life. "So to be clear," Tiffany said, "we're doing that thing where we pretend you know how you're going to handle it?" Bruce sighed quietly. "Okay, cool, just checking."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think Harvey's going to reappear, but figured I should say that I didn't mention any facial scarring because, to my mind, the Bruce in this story made the choices that didn't lead to any.


	4. Intrusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that took longer than I expected. But this is also got longer than I expected, so... yeah.
> 
> There's an element of this chapter I went back and forth on, but frankly, if Telltale doesn't have to explain how John and Harley "found a way to make more" of the virus in the Villain path, then I consider myself covered.

Bane's men unloaded stacks of boxes from the carts wheeled down from street level. It was like a blandly colored Christmas, with a very burly Santa Claus directing too-tall elves. What did each box contain? Food? Clothing? Ammo?

A sturdy plastic container marked with yellow "DANGER" and "COMBUSTIBLE" stickers caught John's eye. That one was for Freeze, Bane said. The work paused as all of his men exchanged wary looks. John giggled; it was like choreography.

One man in particular, Timothy, decided to speak for the others. "I'm sure he'd rather handle it himself," he said carefully.

Bane snorted. "The doctor won't turn you into a test subject so long as you mind your manners around _su cariña_."

The men's unchanging expressions showed that they found this debatable, for good reason. Just yesterday one of their compadres accidentally knocked into the cryotube holding Freeze's wife, Nora. The guy tried to apologize, but Freeze preferred a once warm and fleshy hand as recompense. John wasn't sure what happened after that. Bane had told a couple others to take the guy to the hospital, but that might've meant "take him to the hospital, wink, nudge."

Standing next to John with a checklist, Harley sighed. "Oh, brother. John, you're not too much of a scaredy-cat to take it, are ya?"

"No sirree!" John replied, coming forward.

Timothy gestured with both arms to the stickered container. "Be my guest."

The box was pretty heavy, but John did his best to make it seem like nothing as he carried it past Harley. He went through the corridor to a once-empty storage area, now occupied by Freeze's workspace on the left and Nora's cryotube on the right. The tube itself laid horizontal on a metal platform encasing the bells and whistles that maintained a constant glacial temperature. A nearby generator hummed lowly. Freeze knelt by an open hatch in the casing, working with a smoking soldering iron.

"Special delivery!" John announced. He carried the box carefully across the thin layer of ice that had spread from not only the cryonic contraption, but Freeze's various experiments. He stopped alongside the tube to peer in. Nora's form was visible through the frost. She was a wisp of a lady, but not in a lithe way. Her cheekbones protuded more than looked right for her face, and her knuckles bulged on her twiggy fingers. The plain shirt and pants on her body drifted in the gray-blue liquid surrounding her body, hinting the outlines of a thin frame. The dark hair floating around her head looked fine and feathery.

John thought he could see echoes of pre-sick Nora, who smiled with girl-next-door charm in the picture pinned above Freeze's work table. But he liked this version, who had gone from living in the sun to entombed in the cold, from experimenting scientist to science experiment, from knowledge to ignorance, from body to skeleton.

"I bet you she don't even know she's in that thing," Harley had theorized once. Maybe they should be charitable, she said, and pull the plug when Freeze wasn't looking. Then she yanked John's arm and reiterated that she was kidding. But she didn't need to. If he had any chance to talk to Nora one day, he didn't want to blow it. Think of the perspective! Maybe Nora didn't know her current situation, but she knew the score all right.

She'd laugh at his jokes.

"Hi, Nora," John said now, because it was rude to treat people like they weren't there. He was sure that one day he would look in and her eyes would be open wide, but that was not today.

Freeze finally looked up. "Excellent. Unpack it on the table, if you would. Those crates take up too much space." He turned back to the circuitry.

John eagerly tore past the warning labels, though he already knew the contents were not much to look at. The foam inserts inside the crate held four glass jugs of the chemicals needed to sustain Nora's suspended animation. John set the jugs, a gallon each, in a neat row in the middle of the table. Behind the row was a metal rack with three round slots; the first two were empty and the last held a canister of the complete cryogenic compound, the same ghostly blue as Nora's tube. Its components were indigo, milky white, pale purple, and clear but bubbly, like lemon-lime soda.

But none of these were tasty like soda. They were noxious, somehow coming together to keep a woman on this side of the veil. A white board sat on the table, leaning against the wall, and listed on its left were the symbols on the jars. Numbers indicated their proportions. The rest of the board was filled with neatly written and neatly crossed-out equations. Freeze was trying to make the preservation compound better.

Or at least that's what John thought, the feeling he had. He couldn't _know,_. Freeze could be calculating anything. But...

Wow, what a headache! John laughed as he swayed. He turned away from the chemicals and numbers and leaned back against the table edge. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

"Did you overindulge in 'Fun Dip' again?" Freeze asked. "Or perhaps you've forgotten to eat entirely."

Jeez, you let a meal or two pass you by a few times and everyone got all parental. Though it was a nice change from being all cranky. "I'll have you know," John said with a huffy look, "I had a granola bar."

"Chocolate chip, no doubt." Freeze had set down the iron, and he scanned the row of jugs. "Your assistance is appreciated. Tell Harley the package was in order." He emphasized his dismissal by getting to his feet and heading off to the men's room in the corridor.

John started to walk away, but his eye was drawn back to the board, to the complicated notes. Really, that was the problem, the complication. People just got so stressed when things weren't simple. John much preferred working on the fly, and now he had this itch in the back of his head...

Oh, come on. There was no good reason to think he could do better-- or that he wouldn't do much worse. And Freeze did not like people touching his stuff, especially Nora-related stuff.

But the itch was skritch-skritch-skritching at John's impulsive nature. Acknowledging you had a problem was the first step to addressing it, but he tended to stumble on the subsequent steps, if not take a thrilling dive down the staircase.

And there were whole gallons of chemicals here! What was the harm in pinching just a tad for a little test? Shelves of equipment stood next to the table, and John took some pipettes and a flask. Really, this was Freeze's fault for walking away.

He started with a lavender base, then added a squirt of indigo, a burst of white, and two splashes of the bubbly. He made adjustments until it was the same color as the canister on the rack. Inspiration hit, and he took some smaller bottles off the top shelf, not bothering with the labels. A touch of this, a drop of that, a spill that thawed a spot on the floor. He put the bottles back and fiddled with a few others. His brain buzzed pleasantly as he worked, and soon he had a flask half full of bird's egg blue. 

"What are you doing?!" Behind John, Freeze's arms were raised as if to yank John away, but he kept a safe distance.

Before John could try to answer, footsteps approached from the tracks. Harley appeared around the corner and immediately raised an eyebrow at the scene, and after her came... Riddler, looking as sour as usual. John gritted his teeth.

"Uh, sweetie," Harley said warily, "this ain't no play set."

"I was just--"

"About to blow us to smithereens?" Riddler said, looking down his nose, past the bruising that spread to his left cheek. "Gas us to death?" Shoulders tense, he held his cane behind his back.

Harley rolled her eyes. "Obviously we're still breathin'."

"It's not gonna kill anyone," John said. "Unless they drink it, maybe." Wait. Damn. He should've offered it to Riddler as a cocktail.

"And what on earth is 'it?'" Riddler said.

Under all the stares, John's confidence was quickly faltering. "It's the stuff Nora needs? But better?"

"Pardon?" Freeze said with clear offense.

Riddler guffawed. "A comedian indeed!"

But Harley had a thoughtful look. "Your artistic instinct kick in again, puddin'?"

"What?" Riddler said incredulously.

"You liked those bigger booms we tested yesterday? Those were John's. He got some inspiration."

Riddler sputtered. "You let him tinker with explosives? Because, what, you think he's some sort of idiot savant?!"

Harley planted a hand on her hip. "What, are you butt-hurt because I trust him more than some egomaniac who's gonna bring the Bat down on our heads?"

"I can handle Batman," Riddler shot back. "Meanwhile, this one just learned to drive."

"Well, Christ, Eddie, when the hell else would--" She scowled. "Ya know what? I don't wanna hear any guff from you when you barely spend time on the heist. You just obsess over an overgrown rat."

"With the proper preparations--"

"Just shoot the guy in the damn mouth!" Harley exclaimed, pressing her index fingers into her cheeks. "You don't need puzzle tubes and giant cages and whatever the hell else."

"That winged upstart needs to be put in his place!"

John eyed Riddler's bruise. "Looks like he put your nose out of place," he chuckled, and it felt like a bird trilled in his ribcage when Harley laughed too.

Riddler glowered. "As the architect of this group, I will not be condescended to by a miserable little tagalong."

"Oh, stuff it!" Harley said. "You wanna supervise so bad, try being here."

John would've very much liked the opposite. In fact, a few weeks ago, he'd used one of city's payphone relics to call the FBI and let them know Edward Nygma was back in Gotham. But even though the tip line was fine with anonymity, the representative started asking about the other whos and the whats and the wheres, and John got anxious and hung up. Still, he thought the call would be enough-- but no one showed up until Riddler went to that casino a couple nights ago.

"I suppose I'll have to!" Riddler snapped, and suddenly the shaft of his cane rested on John's shoulder, the hook's point pressing into the back of his neck. "So, clown..."

Ugh. John knew that tone.

"I once was white and green, and now I'm black and blue. Who am I?"

John rubbed his hands together in fake excitement. "Ooh, I think I got this one! Unripe bananas left in--"

"You," Riddler growled, "if you don't stay in your lane and do only as you're told."

"If ya want John back to menial tasks," Harley said, "stop waving your staff around and let him get to it."

"Tch." Riddler swung the cane away and held it at his side. "I've made my point." He shot Harley and Freeze a confident look. "And you'll see the glory of the Batman brought low."

He turned his back and walked away. John plugged his ears with his thumbs, waggled his fingers, and stuck out his tongue. He kept it up until the other man disappeared around the corner.

"You'd think that guy started each morning trying to scratch his ass with that thing," Harley said, smiling a little when John giggled. "Is your 'buddy' more fun to be around?"

John nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, yeah, Bruce is a team player. He's not a fan of unnecessary conflict. Only necessary."

"Well, if Eddie doesn't stop aggravatin' me, Brucie's gonna be a replacement instead of an addition."

What a dream come true that'd be! Riddler gone, and Bruce and Harley leading them to victory.

Freeze cleared his throat. "If the politics are over with, I prefer to work in solitude. And John." He fixed the green-haired man in a steely look. "Do not touch my supplies again." 

"No problem, right, John?" Harley said. After he nodded sheepishly, she said, "C'mon, there's unpackin' to do."

John dutifully followed her, but he glanced back as they turned the corner. Holding the flask, Freeze watched him thoughtfully.

* * *

John grinned. "Soooo you tested it?"

Freeze did not share his enthusiasm. "An analysis did not raise any warnings, so I tried a sample in my suit. Your variation lasted twenty-eight percent longer than the original cryogenic compound. That time is valuable; the longer my suit and Nora's stasis can go without needing to resupply, the less risk we have of the Agency finding us. And my current supply is dwindling."

"Didn't your analysis show what was in it?"

"The results were unclear," Freeze said, more stiffly than usual. "John, what on earth did you do?"

"Well, once you get the colors just right, you add a spot of this and that until you make it better."

"Colors. This and that."

"Right. Just go with the flow." John chuckled to himself. "Flow. Chemicals. Get it?"

Freeze stared, as if he expected John to elaborate.

"I had a pretty fun tune going in my head."

"John," Freeze said harshly, "that is patently ridiculous."

John cocked his head. "I mean, it worked for me."

Another silent moment. Then Freeze lifted his arms in a hopeless gesture. "Could you make it again?"

"Right now?"

"No, I haven't been able to gather the materials for risk of drawing the Agency's attention. However, they should have the components at the holding site."

"Then sure, I guess."

"No 'guessing.'" Freeze said. "No stalling or tricks, or Dr. Leland will suffer."

John thought he heard her gulp. "Yeah, yeah, fine, geez."

"I will observe and record the formula. But first, Tetch's hideout." Freeze turned to Baldy, who had stepped away on his phone. "What is the status of the generators?"

Baldy flashed a thumbs up. "Ready for pick up."

"Then you two"-- Freeze gestured from Baldy to Birdnose-- "can fetch them while the rest of us meet with Tetch. I'll be ready in a moment."

This was rolling along too quickly, John realized. There was no sign that Batman had arrived, and once he did, how long would it take to track them again? This rescue could use a little boost.

"Excuse me!" John said, lurching his shoulder, momentarily forgetting he couldn't raise his hand. "First of all, I call shotgun. I don't know the address exactly, so I'll need visual aids."

Freeze did not look happy about this, but he found enough logic in it to nod.

"Second, I have to use the little boy's room."

"You can hold it," Beardo grunted.

"Come on, Freeze," John whined. "Even you can't be that cruel! I really have to go! You don't wanna deal with that kind of mess in your getaway vehicle."

Freeze huffed. "Take him."

"I'll need a little, uh, help given the restraints," John said, scanning the four goons with an overly apologetic look.

"Not it," said Freckleface.

"Nobody wants to be it," Beardo interjected before the other two could chime in.

"I appreciate the healthy respect for boundaries," John said, "but--"

"Just uncuff him!" Freeze barked. "We don't have time for this. We have the doctor, and he'll need his hands free at the site regardless."

Beardo frowned. "Sir--"

"Now."

Baldy pulled a bowie knife out of a sheath on his hip and moved behind John. With a tug and a snap, the cuffs fell off. "Thank you kindly," John said, stretching out his arms and rubbing his wrists.

The knife returned to the sheath, but it was only held in by a thin strap of leather and a little metal snap. John could yank it out in a jiffy. The blade would be slicing and dicing in no time, and Baldy probably wouldn't get off a shot. The others would, though, and that would be a pickle.

Of course, if John could just... let go... maybe he could handle all of them. Maybe Dr. Leland would be fine. When he'd tried to... hurt Bruce, he'd been mad at him. John wasn't angry at Dr. Leland.

But no, he hadn't been mad at those people in the streets either. Plus if Bruce showed up and found John in the midst of bodies again, he was not going to like it. Even if these creeps were clearly awful. Even if they deserved to regret their line of work. Bruce thought they should live.

Maybe Bruce oughta get here already and pull John out of the land of temptation.

"So where's the latrine?" John asked with a clap of his hands.

Birdnose gestured with his gun to a door at the back of the warehouse. Through it, they entered another less-chilly hallway, where two doors were marked as restrooms. Inside the men's room, it was about as unclean as expected after several years of abandonment. Graffiti sprawled across the far wall, water stains from the ceiling bleeding the colors together. Doors were missing from two of the four stalls on the left, and a small round drain in the middle of the floor was surrounded by a flaky crust. The flickering ceiling lights flashed on the broken mirrors over the dirty sinks on the righthand wall.

Birdnose stood expectantly by the urinals lined up next to the stalls. One had been smashed. "Make it quick," he said.

John gestured to the first stall, which had a door. "Sorry, I've got a bit of nervous bladder, and this is a nervy situation, what with the guns and all."

Birdnose rolled his eyes, but he checked the stall, apparently for makeshift weapons. There was nothing to see but an old toilet empty of water. "Quick!"

"What a pushy gentleman!" John praised as he shut himself in. The design of the stall was poor, with the door swinging inside rather than out, but there was a working latch.

He really did have to pee and took care of that in quick order, humming idly. But once that was taken care of, just another minute of humming passed before Birdnose noticed something was off. 

"Hey," the goon said sharply. "We don't have time for... Number one only, alright?"

"It's number thirty-eight," John replied.

"Thirty... What the hell is...?" Birdnose's suspicions must've been pretty urgent because he shouldered into the stall, popping the latch.

John barely caught the door before it smashed his right knee, and he almost dropped the lipstick. As Birdnose stared, John continued applying it to his mouth, holding up the shiny gold cap in a futile attempt to use it as a mirror. "Color number thirty-eight, velvet rose," he said, before smacking his lips with a pop sound.

"Where the hell did you get that?" Birdnose demanded.

John flashed him an annoyed look. "You guys could've let me get ready before dragging me out here, you know."

"That's not what--" Birdnose let out a frustrated growl and grabbed him by the shirt. "Don't know what weirdo game this is," he growled as he dragged John out of the stall, "but it's done."

"Can't I wash my hands?" John exclaimed. His request went unheeded, and in the hallway he dropped the tube and cap. At least his left shoe would be comfortable again.

Back with the rest of the gang in the warehouse, Freeze had pulled on his insulated jumpsuit, with the fluorescent blue tubes, headset goggles, and all the other doohickies. John noticed something new on the freezing glove: a telescope-like cylinder mounted on the forearm.

"Did you make a new toy?" he asked.

"You should hope you don't find out," Freeze responded.

John scoffed. "And here I thought you knew me." He noticed Freeze staring at his face and did his best impression of a pouting lipstick model. "Do you think it's too garish?" he asked.

Freeze looked to Birdnose, who just shook his head. Freeze apparently decided the subject wasn't worth pursuing. "Let's go."

Leland was staring, too, and raised an eyebrow questioningly. John winked.

* * *

When Bruce arrived at Snowy's, he noticed fresh tire tracks that turned into the weedy, rocky field around the factory but no truck in sight. There was a pile of ski jackets and gloves on the ground.

"Looks like we missed them," he said to Tiffany. "I'll check inside."

"Launching the drone to scan the perimeter," she responded.

A compartment on the side of the Batmobile opened, and a winged drone unfolded and hummed to life, detaching from the car. It set on a course around the side of the factory as Bruce entered a door next to a set of closed shutters.

"Well," he said when he laid eyes on the ice-crusted warehouse, "I don't know who else would need a twenty-thousand-square-foot icebox, but Freeze isn't here." He headed for a table in the middle of the room. There were materials left on it and papers scattered on the floor.

"Not picking up anything significant outside," Tiffany reported.

Bruce picked through the papers and tools, keeping an ear open for any movement. He paused when he spotted a strand of green hair on the gray metal. "John and Leland were here."

"It hasn't been that long since the abduction," Tiffany said optimistically. "You're catching up."

"Not if we can't figure out where they went." Bruce shook his head. "These papers are all schematics." He noticed strips of yellow plastic on the floor on the other side of the table. "Looks like one of them has their hands free. I found cut handcuffs."

"I'm going to have the drone scan the tire tracks, see if we can profile their vehicle."

"I'll keep looking around."

It didn't take him long to leave the warehouse through a door at the back, and he immediately spotted the golden shine on the grimy floor. He picked up a lipstick tube and its wayward cap sitting outside one of the bathroom doors. "I just found lipstick," he said, fitting the pieces together.

"Could be from kids or squatters before Freeze showed up. He hasn't been AWOL that long."

Still, the tube looked too new for how blunted the lipstick was. Bruce entered the men's room and looked around. There, on the front of the first stall: a red swipe. The door opened into the stall, and rather than cram himself inside, Bruce yanked against the swing of the hinges. The door snapped off its supporting partition.

"Sounds like you're having fun," Tiffany said.

"Order some daisies on King Street," Bruce replied.

"Excuse me?"

Bruce leaned the door against a sink. "A message from John, written in lipstick." Underneath the familiar scrawl was a doodle of an annoyed-looking face with its tongue sticking out.

"Well, alright," she said over the sound of her keyboard. "Guess it was John who lost the cuffs." A pause of the keys. "Is that... good?"

Bruce pushed away his agitation. "He left a note instead of... anything else. Yes, it's good."

The clacking resumed. "Media alerts about what happened this morning aren't getting less sensational, by the way."

"I can guess what they say," Bruce said, thinking of Montoya's theory.

"Won't they feel silly when John is brought back with no muss or fuss?" She laughed a little; when Bruce did not, she coughed. "Ah, okay, so there are two King Streets in Gotham. When it comes to daisies, I would think a park or a flower shop."

"Those sound like the options."

"Well, we're in luck, because the park on North King was recently turned into an empty lot to make way for condos! The old florist's on West King it is."

* * *

"So," John said, not a little proudly, "when this ol' town was founded back in the seven-or-eighteen-whatever hundreds, it was known for goat breeding, which is where the name comes from. A rumor spread at the time that the breeding was so successful because the residents were mad and worshipped Pan. The whole town gone wacky! Can you imagine that?"

Freeze was looking at him but did not respond. He sat on John's right with Hatter's journal in his lap. On John's other side, Beardo drove the boxtruck.

"Right," John went on, "so one of the main roads to the docks is King Street, and there was a flower shop there. But the shop is closer to the end of the street with the old clock tower that has a gryphon gargoyle. There are so many gargoyles in this city that there are at least three whole books about it, can you believe it? I mean who decides, 'We're going with a motif of like a hundred looming--'"

"John," Freeze said.

"Right, so there's probably a basement or something under that shop, the 'garden.' I guess Tetchy was paranoid about his stuff?"

"Successful applications of Jervis's research could be used for nefarious purposes. He'd be pursued by not only people who'd want to steal it, but people who'd want to stop it. Naturally he felt unsafe."

"Naturally. Who wants to associate with nefarious characters?" John winked at Freeze and elbowed Beardo a little, but neither man reacted. "So this research is...?"

"Neuroscience."

"And how does that help your lovely little popsicle?"

"Jervis believed it was possible to overtake the human mind and direct a person's behavior. I was impressed by the theories of his work when I last saw him. If he's made significant progress in the years since, we could very well get to Nora with the aid of compliant guards."

John looked down at his hands, tapping his knees, then back to Freeze. "So Tetchy might be able to use mind control."

"Correct."

"And all you want with it is to get into a building."

"At the moment."

John giggled. "Gonna pay Waller a visit, eh?"

"The idea has appeal."

"Oh, gosh, what a confession she'd give then. Clean and clear! You could get her to finally say it's not just a rumor that the Pact are hired guns. Plus things no one has heard about..."

"Or simply get close enough to transform her into a block of ice and push her out her office window," Freeze said.

John cackled. "I'd like to chill a soda with those ice cubes!" He thought for a moment. "Would have to drink fast, though, before it got funky."

"Almost on King Street," Beardo said.

John leaned on the dash and looked up as they rounded an old office tower, constructed of stone in art deco style. At the top, a clock face looked out from each side, and below the clock a gargoyle stretched from each corner. There was the gryphon, head curving to gaze over where King intersected with the road along the base of the building. As the truck turned, John took in the neighborhood. It was one of the more dilapidated areas of Gotham, with older buildings, tagged walls, and plenty of boarded-up windows. There was little road traffic, and as for foot traffic, most of the scattered people kept their heads down. The tinted windows in the truck were almost unnecessary.

They came upon a block on the left that was occupied by ground-level storefronts topped by apartment towers, all abandoned after a long-ago economic failure. John pointed to one of the darkened shops as they passed. "Oh, this one!" Its sun-faded sign read: Silver Bells and Cockle Shells.

After two more shuttered businesses, they rolled through an intersection. Beardo looked down the cross-street. "Looks like there's a back alley."

In a few minutes, the truck stopped outside a door aligned with the back of the flower shop. The alley dead-ended at a brick wall. Beardo got out with his gun and stood there, staring at something behind the truck. John got out on the other side after Freeze, who still held the journal. At the alley mouth, a homeless onlooker was staring back at Beardo; when the vagrant spotted Freeze, he scuttled away. Beardo opened the cargo door and the three other henchmen brought out Leland.

John indicated a basement window along the ground. It had been blacked out from the inside, but on the corner was a small white sticker in the shape of a rabbit mid-leap. "Tea party is beneath the garden!"

Baldy and Birdnose got back in the truck and drove off to get the generators. They'd barely backed out of the alley when Beardo broke the shop door open with a powerful kick. Everyone left behind filed inside, passing through a short entryway before a cashier's counter appeared on the right. Ahead, dim light came through the filthy front windows and drifted over an overturned register, some desiccated plant carcasses on wall shelves, and shards of terra cotta on the empty floor. The air was stuffy given the lack of air conditioning. A coat of gray dust spread over the floor, except for the footprints that led to a door behind the counter. There was an arc in the dust where the door had swept the tile.

After twisting the knob didn't work, Beardo tried another kick, but the door didn't budge. John snickered.

Beardo drew back his shoulders. "Other side must be reinforced," he said.

Freckleface had one hand on his gun and the other on Leland's cuffs, so he pointed with his chin. "The panel."

A gray hinged panel was on the wall next to the door, and Beardo lifted it to show an electronic pad with numbers.

Predictable. John yawned. "Let me guess. Lewis Carroll's birthday."

"If this guy's such a genius," Beardo said, "he wouldn't--"

"Just look it up," Freckleface said.

Beardo shot him a dirty look but pulled a phone out of his back pocket. After a minute, he punched eight digits into the pad. The buttons flashed green and there was a loud metallic click from the door.

"You sure this Tetch guy is so smart?" Beardo said, pointedly looking past John to Freeze as he replaced his phone.

"In the ways that concern me," Freeze replied.

The gunman opened the door, revealing a descending wooden staircase faintly lit from below.

"Hello-hello?" John called. No one responded.

Freeze frowned a little but ordered everyone down. John happily went first.

The stairs followed the wall on the left, with the landing at the back corner. It got cooler as John approached the bottom, and when he turned right, the first thing he saw was a long table covered in a blue gingham cloth across the room. Its centerpiece was a white ceramic tea pot covered in brown stains, circled with a ring of dead flowers. Each of the ten table settings had a delicate china teacup in a matching saucer next to a small plate holding a scone. Two tiered trays held dozens of small triangles that were probably cucumber sandwiches, but at this point they and the scones were spotted with mold and crawling with roaches. The chairs surrounding the table were each a different style and occupied by a large stuffed animal-- a smiling bear, a walrus balanced on its tale, a long-eared rabbit. The solitary bare bulb hanging overhead glowed steadily.

It was one of the creepiest things John had seen outside Arkham-- but it also reeked, so he drifted to the other side of the room as the others came down. In the dimness, he saw a long wooden work table built into the wall. The space was covered with a mess of tools, metalwork, circuit boards, hats, and who knew what else. A teacup laid overturned on a pile of papers, and the pages had dried crinkled and brown, a faint stain on the concrete floor underneath.

"Jervis..." John looked over his shoulder and saw Leland standing behind the stuffed rabbit. She wrinkled her nose at the roaches, but she had a sorrowful look in her eyes. Beardo had stationed himself by the stairs to watch them, while Freeze and Freckleface looked around the room.

"I've heard being late is the hip thing to do," John said, "but what is it when you don't even show up to your own party?"

"My sister's non-wedding," Freckleface grumbled.

John chortled and pointed at him. "Lookit this guy, showing personality!"

A loud thump sounded, drawing everyone's attention to a door barely visible in the far wall, in the darkest corner. Freckleface approached with his rifle at the ready. He paused, looking up, and pulled an unseen string over the work table. Another bulb burst to life, better illuminating the room. Leland jerked away from the tea party as the roaches retreated.

"Jervis," Freeze called. There was no answer, no light coming from the crack of space beneath the door.

Freckleface moved in. He yanked the door open, revealing a small bathroom, with a toilet crammed alongside a pedestal sink and the Hatter crumpled in the cranny between them.

"Oh, my God," Leland gasped, coming to John's side.

The freckled gunman tapped Hatter's leg with his boot. Tetch didn't move.

Leland took another step forward. "Is he..."

Freckleface tugged Tetch out of the cramped space and laid him out at Leland and John's feet. John could now see that the small man dressed more formally outside of Arkham, though not more neatly. His ensemble, a tweed suit with a waistcoat, was a wrinkled and stained mess. A tarnished chain hung from his pocket. On the bathroom floor laid a crushed top hat.

"Check his pulse," Freeze directed.

Freckleface crouched down and pressed two fingers to Tetch's throat. After a moment he frowned.

"Maybe the Queen of Hearts had him taken care of by some clubs," John chuckled.

Tetch jerked up, planting his palms on the floor, his legs splayed. Freckleface reeled back, fumbling for his gun. Tetch's bleary eyes locked on John. "Cat!" he rasped. "You're back!"

John scrunched his eyebrows. "How can I be back somewhere I've never been?"

"Clever," Tetch said. "Too clever for the Queen. Can't behead only a head..." He swayed, his head dipping forward.

Leland knelt at his side. "Jervis," she said calmly, "when did you last eat?" John saw what she did: sallow skin and a thin neck that didn't fill out its collar. He also saw the twitch of her bound hands, the urge to treat.

Tetch didn't answer and his eyes slipped closed, but he remained upright.

"Do you have food here?" Leland asked, voice still soft. "Anything in cans?"

He swayed again, away from her. "More for the party? No room, no room..."

Leland looked to Freeze and the gunmen. "If you need his help, we need to find--"

Freeze waved her off. "I can't wait for him to recover from a stupor," he said. He opened the journal to one of the last pages, cluttered with diagrams, and went to inspect the mess of a work space.

John crouched next to Leland. "He says we have no Time, Tetchy," he teased. "Have you been singing again?"

"John," Leland said, "will you help me?"

She had that please-take-this-seriously look. He wished she could see this as an adventure, but then she did take those doctorly oaths. John wasn't sure what could be done for the Hatter, but he could indulge her.

He got up and returned to the long table. "There has to be something still good in this whole spread," he mused. "Would tea help? It's got a lid, so maybe--" He replaced the lid as quickly as he'd lifted it. "Is tea supposed to be seasoned with dead rat?"

* * *

There was no telling if Freeze had headed straight to the flower shop, or if Bruce would get there first. To maintain the element of surprise, he parked the Batmobile a couple of blocks away down Snyder Ave, in a wide walkway between a long-abandoned liquor store and a fenced-off empty lot. He would've preferred more cover, but this area of the city was practically barren, and he didn't want the car any further away.

He got out and noted how the walkway continued around back, a narrower strip of concrete stretching behind the store and all its neighbors. He took that way, telling Tiffany, "I'm heading for Silver Bells."

"And I just got some interesting information from the GCPD line," she replied.

"I'm listening," Bruce said. He passed door after door in the shade on his left and the long wall of an old rec center on his right.

"It goes back to a question I had myself about the raid on Arkham. If this operation is largely on the fly, it's weird that they knew where to cut off riot alarm."

He came to Moore Street and looked around. Using the suit in the daytime was always odd. He couldn't lurk in many shadows with the sun almost directly overhead. A couple of teenagers didn't see him since they wandered down the block in the other direction. "That was suspicious, yes." He grappled to the roof of the one-story building across the street and lighted on the blacktop. "I'm sure Gordon thought so, too."

"They identified one of the gunman, the bald guy who took care of the alarm. His name is Lawrence Carson. No known associates are a match for the other three guys-- and it looks like he and MacIntyre didn't meet until recently either-- but the GCPD did note one interesting association. There's an domestic disturbance report from a couple years ago. His girlfriend called the cops on him for threatening her."

"Sounds in-character, sadly."

"Yeah, they stayed on-again, off-again, too. But she works at the Gotham Department of Records, where they keep city building plans."

"So someone who works for the city likely helped facilitate this."

"Possibly under threat, but in any case, Joanne Dumfree is gonna have a conniption."

Bruce was not happy about it himself, but right now he needed to focus on getting John and Leland out of danger. He stood on the other side of the roof now, looking up at the next block of empty highrises. He aimed for the rails of a balcony halfway up the corner building and shot off the grapple. His body whipped through the warm air as the cord retracted, and he disengaged the claw in time to grab the rail with his hands. On the balcony, he shot off the grapple again, upwards in the direction of an old rooftop air conditioning unit he'd seen from across the street. After a clang, he pulled on the cord. It felt secure, and in another moment he was on top of the highrise. The cooling unit was silent, but Tiffany had already confirmed via the thermal map that this was not a cold spot.

"Any clue yet on what Freeze would be doing here?" The likelihood that this was where the Agency had Nora felt very low.

"Nothing much yet. After the shop went out of business, the property was bought by a White Rabbit, LLC. The name behind it is hidden behind... layers of paranoia, I'll say, but I'm getting there."

This block was split by two rows of apartment towers, one facing King and the other facing Moore. Between them, an alley cut in from Snyder that passed the back of the florist. Looking down, Bruce saw the alley was empty, so he made the leap to the next roof and rappelled down to the street. Silver Bells and Cockle Shells looked as empty as the rest of the stores; he couldn't see any movement through the filthy windows. and the boards across the front entrance were intact. He headed for Snyder to get a closer look at the back.

In the alley, he found the broken door. "Clear sign of entry," he reported. "I don't hear anything inside"-- he saw the small window along the ground-- "but they may be downstairs." He paused. "There's a rabbit insignia on this window."

"Not something property owners usually do."

Bruce crouched and pressed his glove to the blackened glass, activating the audio sensors.

* * *

Freeze had called on Beardo to pick over Tetch's mess, leaving Freckleface to keep watch over John and Leland. He was mighty suspicious of John wandering around the room, so John kept his hands raised high while he looked for something edible. Soon enough, he noticed a cardboard box lying between some crates under the workbench, which turned out to be a package of shortbread cookies with an unopened sleeve. John showed it to Leland, and her eyes lit up. She thanked him and asked if he could try to get their patient to eat.

Tetch was pretty amenable. John held him steady by the back of the neck and held a crisp cookie in front of his face. "Here comes the airplane!" he said, zooming it to the other man's half-open mouth. Tetch's eyes had some glimmer of recognition and he bit off half. "Oh, no!" John gasped. "The fuselage has split! Oh, the humanity!"

Leland did not enjoy his narration, but she seemed satisfied with the result.

Then Freeze was standing over them. He held two metallic bands and what looked like a thumb drive. The diameter of the bands was smaller than a dinner plate, and it looked like circuitry lined the insides.

"Mr. Tetch, can you explain these devices?"

Tetch didn't react. He swallowed the bite and his mouth opened again.

"Sorry," John said, feeding him the rest of the cookie. "He's busy finishing off the passengers-- including the dogs in cargo. No, not Mr. Waggles!!"

Freeze hummed in annoyance and walked around them. "We'll have to do our own testing."

Dr. Leland turned toward him, but he'd already slipped one of the bands around her head. John watched curiously as her eyes lost focus. He let go of Tetch and waved a hand in front of her face, but she didn't react. "Positive for signs of dissociation," he said with a nervous laugh.

Freeze lifted the drive to his mouth. No, not a drive, some kind of microphone. He pressed a small button on the side and spoke into it. "Dear lady, get to your feet."

She did, steadily.

"Jump."

She did that too, a single hop. John giggled and got up. "Is this a new version of Simon Says?

The gunmen exchanged bewildered looks. Freckleface said hesitantly, "That thing can't really... Could it make her do anything?"

His tone brought John's hackles up. It reminded him of particular Arkham patients and orderlies, conspiring and predatory.

Then Freeze said into the mic, "Bite off your tongue."

John whirled to Leland and grabbed her shoulders. "Don't!"

Her jaw stayed as still as her gaze.

"Open your mouth," Freeze said.

Her lips parted, and her tongue was in place.

"There are limits," he concluded, lowering the controller. "Still, this should be enough to receive guidance to Nora."

John looked at him darkly. "You said she would be safe."

"She is."

"You didn't know that."

"One would think you of all people would enjoy seeing someone who prods in the minds of others have the same done with her."

"She's not like that!" Dr. Leland always wanted John to be comfortable. She always explained what she was doing. She didn't force him to talk about things and definitely didn't force him to do things.

Freeze cocked his head curiously. "Another worthwhile test." He lifted the controller again and activated it. "Doctor, will you elucidate your opinion of John Doe?"

John's stomach squirmed. He turned back to Leland. Her mouth closed, and for a moment it looked like her commitment to doctor-patient privilege was strong enough against even mind control.

Then her mouth opened again and she said, "I failed." Her tone was even, but her eyes glistened. "I thought he could make it. The environment in Arkham was too hostile for him to grow past it. A halfway house and an outpatient program, he could transition, learn, with other people, outside. But other people... I failed. It's my fault."

"Okay," John snapped at Freeze, "the test is over."

Freeze continued to watch dispassionately.

"It's my fault," Leland repeated. Tears slid down her cheeks. "My fault."

"Over!" John ripped the band off her head. Beardo yanked it away from him, but John barely noticed. He grabbed Leland's shoulders again and peered at her face. "Dr. Leland?"

She blinked several times, focusing on him. She shook her head a little, leftover tears tapping the floor. "John..." Her eyes went wide, and she definitely remembered everything she said. "John, I--"

"These will serve my needs," Freeze said, slipping the bands on his ungloved arm and putting the controller in his pocket.

Tightness crawled up the muscles in John's back. Freeze had been wrong about Leland, but that was not okay. _That was not okay._ That was private, the kind of private there were _rules_ about. Ha, but John already knew how well rules held up out here, especially with a guy like Freeze. Freeze didn't care; he just went ahead and did what he thought should be done. Why would anyone marry someone like that?

Clarity hit John, and a sharp laugh lashed from his mouth. "Nora really doesn't know she's in that tube, does she? Whatever happened in that explosion, or after, I bet it was the perfect opportunity for you to shove her into the only treatment you thought would work."

Freeze's expression didn't change, but he did say, "A fool posits about topics he knows nothing about."

"I bet you argued about it before." Freeze tensed up at that, and John felt a happy little thrill. "And she didn't want to do it, but then the accident happened, and it was the only way, huh? And she couldn't tell you no."

He'd never seen Freeze's face twist like that before, into something offended yet guilty-- but then the scientist came forward and grabbed Leland's upper arm with his glove. She flinched, and John's awareness dropped back into the room, with Hatter rocking at their feet, the stench from the tea party, and the sickly tinge of yellow light.

"You may speak that freely when lending an ear to a pack of drunken, impressionable reprobates," Freeze growled, "but not to me."

John took a few breaths, but the need to cut stayed in his teeth. "My apologies. Didn't mean to taint your reunion with such terrible insinuations."

Freeze narrowed his eyes. Leland whimpered.

A beeping noise interrupted the tension, and Beardo checked his phone. "Truck is almost back."

"Excellent," Freeze said, releasing Leland's arm. "Let's continue on our way."

She swallowed and glanced down at Tetch. "Wh-what about--"

"What about him?"

* * *

"Bruce," Tiffany hissed, "freaking mind control. This is nuts!"

Bruce slinked into the store, noting the basement door had been left open. He crouched at the front of the store counter, hidden from sight. "Definitely not a twist I expected today."

"Can you imagine the scary shit people could do with that?"

"We'll have to worry about it when this is over," he murmured.

"Oh, sure!" she said with a dry laugh. "Drone standing by! Worry later, yeah, right..."

He breathed steadily as heavy steps started up the stairs, followed by the clamor of others following. John was uncharacteristically quiet. From Bruce's position, the dark hair of one of the gunmen appeared and bobbed along the countertop. Then came a head of reddish hair, then of vivid green. Bruce counted two more steps.

As Leland turned from the doorway, Bruce launched over the counter and slammed the door into Freeze, knocking him back and the door shut. Bruce barely registered the thuds down the stairs as he sliced through Leland's cuffs with a batarang, then drove it into the electronic lock, setting off sparks and lights.

He turned to the two gunmen past the end of the counter, who lifted their rifles. He aimed the launchers on his wrists, and John laughed wildly as he pulled Leland to the floor. Bruce sprang the anchors and they latched onto the guns; he retracted just as quickly, yanking the weapons into his own hands. One gun went under his arm so he could slam the other over his knee, bending the barrel before dropping it with a clatter.

Then he leaped up, pushing one leg off the counter as leverage to fly over John and Leland's heads, and whipped each henchman's face with the butt of the other gun. The red-headed freckled one dropped, but the bearded one took the hit better and grabbed for the weapon. Bruce kicked him in the stomach, knocking him away from the alley door before making quick work of the second barrel.

"Go!" Bruce shouted over his shoulder.

"You sure you don't want help?" John asked hopefully as he pulled Leland up.

"There's another man downstairs!" she exclaimed as a pounding sounded on the short-circuited door.

Bruce ducked a punch and crouching low for a sweeping kick that knocked his opponent's legs out from under him. "Get her out of here, John!"

"Oh, fine!" John replied, and Bruce could hear him rolling his eyes. Glancing back, he saw the pair run past the unconscious man and out the door. John's voice carried from the alley: "Did you see how cool?!"

Bruce jumped on top of the bearded man, grabbed the shoulders of his vest, and slammed his head onto the floor. The man grimaced, but then his head shot forward, bashing into Bruce's. The cowl blunted the pain, but Bruce was thrown off kilter and the gunman flipped them over. He pulled his arm back to smash it into Bruce's face, only for Bruce to catch his wrist and yank his arm across his body. The other man fell to the side, and Bruce rolled away and onto his feet.

A strange crackling noise drew his attention; the basement door was frosting over. The bearded man was not as interested, and Bruce blocked strikes aimed for his chin and stomach. He swung behind the goon and snared him in a headlock just as the door burst apart, icy chunks skittering across the counter and crumbling on the dusty floor. A piece flew far enough to smash through a front window, letting in a streak of solid daylight.

Freeze pulled himself through the hole, and Bruce saw the modification to his glove, recognized the barrel from the schematics in the warehouse. And Freeze aimed it right at the vigilante. Bruce let go of the henchman and they both dove out of the way as it fired. With a blue flash, a white crust spread over the wall of shelves that had been behind them, creeping to the floor and ceiling.

"Stop this, Freeze!" Bruce shouted, keeping an eye on the bearded man catching his breath on the floor. "There are other ways to help your wife."

"Really," Freeze responded, lowering his arm. He moved from behind the counter to stand in front of the path to the exit. He had two metallic bands in his left hand. "Would you do what it takes to get her out of the Agency's hands, Batman? I believe you are aware that negotiations have limited returns."

Apparently Freeze had some contact with Bane or Harley. "I've helped you before, Victor. We can think of a plan."

"Yes, I appreciate that you followed through on your end of our exchange, but that deal is done. You certainly can't give me what I want now."

"Revenge won't fix anything," Bruce said. The bearded man was making his way back toward the counter now. Bruce had the broken window behind him. If this went sideways, he could make a quick escape. But that Tetch man was downstairs...

"It will make the Agency think twice about continuing pursuit," Freeze spat.

"You should consider that, too, hero," the bearded man said, taking a round object from a pouch on his belt. He pulled a pin and threw the thing downstairs. 

Bruce's shout was drowned out by the explosion, which rattled the floor and lit up the stairwell. Incendiary grenade.

"Let's go!" the gunman yelled to Freeze.

They rushed out, past the freckled man slumped against the wall, as Bruce barrelled downstairs.

* * *

When John and Dr. Leland burst into the alley, he grabbed her wrist and started running. He didn't like the idea of leaving Bruce on his own, but he also didn't like the idea of doing the same with Dr. Leland, and she was way more susceptible to mortality.

"Where do we go?" she asked.

John hadn't thought of that yet, but when they emerged onto the street they were confronted by a hovering black drone with purple details. They stumbled to a stop.

"Follow me to the Batmobile," it said. Its female voice was stilted, like talking computers in old movies. It drifted backwards down Snyder Ave.

"Oh, hey!" John waved as he followed after it. "What was your name again?" It had been a while after the Agency thing shook out that Batman's associate made her debut, officially that is. And even then, Bruce had been keeping Tiffany out of the field as much as possible. That was why her moniker slipped John's mind-- not because of poorly stifled jealousy or anything.

Leland was the one pulling John into a run now. "The robot doesn't need a name." 

"Spectrum," the drone replied as it matched their speed.

John threw Leland a smug look. "Now don't you feel rude?"

They raced past a cross street and the stares of half a dozen people, though most of the attention was drawn to the flying machine. John definitely did not feel that jealousy rear up, but he absolutely noticed an unmistakable white boxtruck headed right for them.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Leland shouted.

The drone maintained its path as it spun around-- impressively, John admitted-- then emitted a squawking noise-- hilariously, John thought. It spun again and exclaimed, "On the left, just before the lot!"

John could see a fenced-off lot at the end of the block, and a lane of concrete between it and the neighboring store. They made a beeline for it, but the truck came to a screeching stop in the middle of the street. Shouting, Baldy and Birdnose scrambled out with their everpresent guns.

The drone rounded on them, flying higher, and the air in front of it wavered. John could hear a low pulsing noise, which was not what the two goons in the drone's path heard. They hunched over, pressing their hands over their ears, rifles left hanging from their shoulder slings. The drone moved left and right as the men stumbled around, trying to keep them both in line with the sound cannon.

John and Leland made for the lane again, but when the Batmobile was in sight, something round was thrown over their heads and clanged on the hood. It rolled off and landed by one of the front tires. It had a small, blinking red light.

"Uh oh," John said, before grabbing Leland and diving against the front of the building.

An explosion burst from the lane with heat and smoke. A section of the overhanging roof came down, and Leland shrieked as metal and wood and shingles smashed down on the sidewalk. Baldy was firing wildly at the drone now, as it veered this way and that. Birdnose came toward them, breathing hard, checking on the drone, unsure what to do.

John was more certain; he grabbed a sturdy length of rain gutter from the burning debris and swung it at the back of Birdnose's head. Unfortunately, Birdnose caught the movement in his periphery and blocked the blow with his arm. Then he grabbed the gutter, trying to wrestle it from John, and they lurched back and forth. And John realized, hell, there was a gun hanging right there, with enough give in the sling to aim right at Birdnose's crotch. 

Frankly, John thought he could make another very good case for justifiable homicide, but wouldn't Bruce be proud he was taking a less deadly (and much funnier) way out? He snatched the rifle's grip.

And Birdnose kicked one of John's legs out from under him and he went down on his back, which was neither helpful nor funny. Then Birdnose was on top of him, sneering and pressing the gutter down on his throat. John was pretty sure this did not align with Freeze's plan, but he'd need more air to point that out.

No matter, though, because Leland suddenly appeared, driving a flaming hunk of wood into Birdnose's face. He recoiled back with a scream, smacking the torch out of her hand, then lurched away onto his stomach, clutching at his eyes.

Leland tried to pull John up but she was shaking, and John couldn't stop looking from her stricken face to Birdnose moaning on the ground. "Wow. _Wow._ Wooooow-how-how-how."

Overhead, the drone swerved, still dodging Baldy's shots, but suddenly a burst of blue appeared on the central body. Ice crusted over the drone, it wavered, and-- with almost pained "woooo" sound-- it crashed to the asphalt.

Freeze approached, aiming the ice gun at his once-again captives, the mind control bands still secure on his left arm. Behind him came Beardo, who glanced back at the column of smoke snaking up over King Street. Baldy, panting, nailed the drone with a solid kick before pinning John and Leland in his rifle sight. Beardo stopped at Birdnose's side, scowling down the other man's quivering shoulders.

"Leave him as well," Freeze said, though his glower remained on John. "We head for the site _now_."

* * *

Bruce breathed heavily, not only to take in outside air, but because he'd just dragged two bodies from the flaming flower shop. The man who Freeze had abandoned hadn't stirred, though at this point it could've been from the smoke inhalation as much as the brute force. Across the street from the shop, Bruce had cuffed his arms around a lamp post, then hit the code on his comm link to send the location to the fire department. The locals were drifting to the scene, though, so it was possible someone else had already called.

Walking down Snyder with Tetch over his shoulders in a fireman's carry did not make breathing any easier, but Bruce didn't have a good reason to restrain him and was wary about leaving him unattended. Despite having been at ground zero, Tetch was awake, albeit woozy and blackened. 

"Twinkle, twinkle, little bat..." Tetch sing-songed as they approached the smoking spot where Bruce had left the Batmobile.

"Spectrum, report," Bruce tried for a second time.

Finally, the line clicked on. "Batman," Tiffany said wearily. "I'm sorry. They're gone."

"You did your best," Bruce replied, because he knew it was true-- but not for him. He could have done better. Could have gone for Freeze first. Could have run with John and Leland. Could have--

"If you can chip the ice off my drone, I think it'll still run."

When Bruce came to a stop, he stood over the machine laying askew in the road. The ice around the core shined as it slowly melted in the sun. Just a few feet away, a groaning man was curled in the fetal position with his hands over his face.

"They left two men behind," Bruce said as he set Tetch down by the drone. He seemed happy to stay put as Bruce approached the gunman. "One at the shop and one here."

"Yeah, I'm not sure what happened," Tiffany said, "but I heard screaming."

Vomit leaked from the man's mouth to a puddle on the asphalt, and his skin looked pale despite the blaring sun. He breathed rapidly, but only flinched when Bruce carefully pulled back his hand to try to check his pupils. Bruce grimaced when he saw that would be impossible. Did John do this? The idea unsettled him, but when he looked around and spotted the scattered bullet shells, he reminded himself of the context. Clearly, a lot had happened when Bruce sent John and Leland out on their own.

"Is your car still on fire?" Tiffany asked, as if to reinforce the point.

His sigh was deep but quiet as he looked over and watched the flames dancing on his tires. "The Batmobile is resistant to all kinds of damage. It looks worse than it is." It had to. The car could go much faster than he could glide. "When the fire department gets here, I can get a better idea."

As if on cue, the sound of sirens bled into the air. Tetch gasped, bringing his hands to his mouth as if to gnaw nervously on his nails. "The cry of the Jubjub bird!"

Tiffany managed to hear it. "I don't even know what to do about that guy," she said, "especially if Freeze is headed to Nora now. I've let Gordon know the situation, but we probably don't have a lot of time for anyone to find the truck. We need to know their destination." 

"This accomplice is in shock," Bruce said, looking back at the gunman, "and the other one may not wake up any time soon." Another mistake. Always leave at least one for questioning.

"How salvageable is Wonderland Man's work?" 

Bruce thought back to the roiling basement. "I'd say it's... not."

"Good. Because I don't want Waller anywhere near that kind of tech and we need to call her."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone sticking with this story! And extra thanks for the comments! They're a nice bright spot in the day.


	5. Noncompliance

The fire department arrived within a few minutes to quell the flames in the flower shop, and a few patrol cars showed up as well. The officers put in a couple calls: one for ambulances for the two gunmen and the other to Arkham to pick up Tetch for evaluation. An extinguisher borrowed from the firefighters was enough to douse the Batmobile-- not that Bruce didn't already have one himself, but seeing as he kept it in the car... Another lesson for the day.

While the GCPD's cooperative relationship with Batman was a known fact, Bruce still preferred the public to feel some sense of mystery about his crimefighting persona. Maintaining any mystery was not possible with a small crowd watching him examine the Batmobile's damage in broad daylight. A perimeter of police tape at either end of the block and a couple of officers kept the onlookers back, but what did that matter to the zoom on their phones?

The fire-resistant shielding appeared to have done its job and protected the bulk of the car, though the bright red camouflage feature was likely not so functional. The tire that had been nearest to the explosion was ruined, but the rest looked like they could pull through, at least for his next move.

And his next move was up to Waller.

"Got her on the line," Tiffany said, sounding harried. "Connecting now."

A click, and then: "Fancy hearing from you, Batman."

Waller's was a voice that Bruce would rather never hear again. After their last conversation, she no doubt felt the same about him. She'd reamed him for verifying the existence of the Lotus virus to the press and "lauding that maniac like some kind of goddamn hero," and he called her out for avoiding any responsibility for what happened on the bridge and for persecuting John more out of spite than anything else. They traded threats to reveal the incriminating information they had on each other, but Waller again decided that mutually assured destruction was unproductive. She was still safe enough in her position and happy enough with the Agency's legal maneuvers. When closing the discussion, of course, she had some barbed advice:

_You let that heart bleed long enough, it'll kill you._

It very well might. But after everything that happened, putting himself on the line before John was the only option.

"Unfortunately," Waller continued with an aggravated sigh, "I can guess the reason for your call."

Bruce walked around to the trunk and kept his voice low so the crowd couldn't catch any of the conversation. "Freeze is on his way to Nora right now, with John and Dr. Joan Leland," he said.

"Yes, I'd heard about Doe," she said, not hiding her lack of concern.

"Several people are in the hospital," Bruce pressed. He resisted pointing out that maybe they wouldn't be, had she warned Bruce or the GCPD that Freeze might come to the area. "I can stop him, but I need Nora's location." He popped the trunk, revealing the spare tire.

"Hm."

Bruce did not like that hesitation. "Waller--"

"I don't think I'll be doing that. We have contingencies for Freeze finding the site."

"Are you kidding?" Bruce snapped. "You know how dangerous he is. I can help."

"Oh, I know," she retorted. "You like to help everyone. If you think I'm stupid enough to let you near the only tool I have to get that brilliant human icicle back in line, you must have a piss-poor memory."

"He could kill your agents and his captives!"

"I trust my agents' abilities. Goodbye, Batman."

"Waller-- Waller?" She'd hung up on him. Bruce clenched his fists. Unbelievable! He knew she wouldn't give a damn about John, but Dr. Leland? The agents? Bystanders? Was her risk-benefit analysis that narrow and cold?

He could unbalance that clinical equation, he thought, with worse consequences than compromising documents. He could get hands-on, if John got hurt or ended up--

Bruce slammed a fist onto the Batmobile's roasted roof. No. Stop. Think. Keep moving. The best thing he could do for John and everyone else in range of Freeze's grudge was utilize all the time available.

"I can't say I didn't expect that," came Tiffany's voice. Bruce could hear rushing air in the background. "But that's why I left after I connected you."

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Who's gonna get to MacIntyre faster? Me or you?"

* * *

Tiffany had many firsts under a year of Bruce's training. Her first fist fight. First blood spatter analysis. First hack of a government database. And now her first daylight venture in costume. Like Bruce, she kept a spare at Wayne Tower; she'd also been keeping some ground transport in a nearby storage facility. The glider drone was unfortunately back at the cave.

While getting Waller on the line, Tiffany had emailed her supervisor to say she didn't feel well and was going home. No matter how the call ended, she couldn't sit at the office anymore while Bruce dodged frost bullets. By the time she'd changed, put on her helmet, and jumped on her motorcycle, Waller had shot them down; Tiffany headed straight for the GCPD. 

She cut through alleys and ran red lights. A map displayed in her visor showed blinking lights indicating nearby police cars. Imagine ending up being chased by the cops on the way to the station. Bruce's buddy would probably find that hilarious-- but that was better than the last situation she'd seen him hysterical over.

"Gordon gave me the okay to come in," she explained to Batman. "I mean, I used the royal 'we,' so maybe he thinks that's you, but given our time crunch, I'm not that worried about it."

"Once I replace this tire," Bruce said, "I can meet you."

"No," she said as she weaved between a minivan and a station wagon. "For all we know, you're close to the location now." There was the GCPD a few blocks ahead, still lined with scaffolding after all these months. "Trust me. I got this."

* * *

Two generators took up the space in the back of the truck, so John and Leland sat in the middle across from each other. Leland sat with her legs bent, arms propped on her knees, hands clasped. Her head was bowed, and it took a while for John to realize she might be praying. That was all well and good for her. In John's experience, only people down on Earth had ever heard him: Leland, Harley to a point, and Bruce, of course. John sat cross-legged and scratched distractedly at his knees.

He was pretty sure Bruce was okay. Freeze would've crowed about it if he was, like, dead. Wouldn't he? Or was he too focused on his wife to comment on even that? No, no, Bruce was okay. Batman wouldn't let something as tedious as fire take him out. Then again, there had been a time when Joker thought Batman was just fine, and he _kind of_ was, but he'd also had a severe flesh wound that put him out for several hours. Freeze's plan would be all wrapped up much sooner than that. Then it was a question of if he'd ride straight off into the sunset with Nora or take the time to...

The door rattled as the truck rolled over bumps and dips. John glanced over at the noise, than at a third thing that Birdnose and Baldy had picked up: a large cloth drawstring bag, holding a metal cube as tall as John's knees. He'd inspected it thoroughly after being thrown back into cargo. The cube was made of a thin metal, with clear piping in a symmetrical, triangular pattern on all sides. A round cap screwed over a large hole on top, and inside was a similarly capped plastic globe, suspended in the center of the cube by metal rods.

John supposed whatever went inside this thing was kept up front with their captors, like the gasoline for the generators. Whyever wouldn't Freeze trust him around gasoline? Even if John figured out a way to light it, what good would it do to set the truck on fire with them locked in? ...Though, honestly, John would be game to try it, and after Leland had just freaking blinded a guy, boosting his regard for her to near-Batman levels, maybe she wouldn't be so against a wildcard move either.

He must've broken a personal record for silence. "Well," he finally said, "we learned two things: I'm gonna join your team during the next riot, and I made you feel hopeless."

Leland's shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. She looked up. "My feelings are incidental to your mental health, John, as important as our relationship is. Yes, I felt horrified when I finally learned where you had gone and everything that happened-- but I felt that way because I do believe that with the _proper_ transition, you could live a fulfilled life. I still believe that.

"The people who surround us can have a tremendous impact on our lives. If I had any idea that Harleen had those inappropriate interactions with you, I..." Her head dipped again. "I don't know."

"Of course not," John snorted. "I wasn't going to tell you I was going to look for her."

They'd already talked about Harley in plenty of sessions, about what made a healthy romantic relationship and how many of Harley's words and actions did not fall under that model. But John himself had never adhered very well to an appropriate model of behavior, so it still seemed out of step for him to find a partner who did. The model did sound nice: trust, respect, communication. Boundaries seemed a little restricting (being boundaries and all), but he guessed even in a model you couldn't have everything.

He'd experienced those components way more often with Bruce than with Harley, and his relationship with Bruce demonstrated a hell of lot more longevity, that was for sure.

Leland ran her hands over her face with another sigh. Seemingly reset, she crawled the short distance to him. "Let me see your neck." He lifted his chin and she carefully examined the dark blotching across his throat. "Can you swallow okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, doc."

She settled down on his left. "He tried to crush your windpipe."

"But thanks to you, the world still gets to experience these dulcet tones." He rolled his eyes at her continued gloom. "Come on, aren't you bound by oaths to promote your patient's health? You did your duty!"

"I'd rather do it peacefully, back in my office."

"Don't you worry. We'll be safe and sound in your favorite home for the criminally insane soon enough." He'd decided to err on the side of Batman being up and about. "You and me, back at the ol' therapy grind."

Somehow she looked more solemn. "John..."

"What?"

She shook her head. "It's not the time."

"Not the time for _what?_ "

"We need to focus on our situation--"

"How am I supposed to focus when you get all vague and ominous?"

"It's not ominous. It's... An intense experience like this can complicate the necessary boundaries between a doctor and a patient. There's going to be an assessment of if I should remain your treating psychiatrist. There was already all that pushback when I requested to keep working with you last year."

"Well, that-- that's not fair." John scowled. "Nothing that happened was your fault, and they definitely can't blame you for today!"

"It's not about blame--"

"What do the crusty trustees know anyway? You know me best. The other docs don't get me at all! You get it. What you said is true, about my environment. The world isn't run like Arkham-- I'm not sure it's run by anything-- and I can only figure out how to live in it when I'm out there. That can't happen without _you_. The others, I hear what they say, 'joking' about permanent solitary--"

She carefully enclosed his shaking hands in hers. "That won't happen, because I will still be there, even if I'm not your treating doctor." She gave his hands a squeeze. "I'm sorry, John. I'm not at my best right now. This was not the time to bring that up."

"It's not fair."

"It's only a possibility. We should focus on what we can do... now..."

The truck was slowing down. A few moments after it stopped, the door slid partway up, showing only trees behind Freeze and Beardo as they climbed inside. Freeze aimed his weapon at them, though his goggles seemed trained on John, probably because John's face showed that he was doing his best not to leap up and break off that glove. Leland could tell; she didn't let go of his hands.

After Beardo closed the door, he held a finger to his lips. The truck rolled forward again, but soon came to another stop.

"This is private property," a faint voice said. "Gonna have to ask you to turn back."

"Oh, sorry about that!" Baldy called out from the cab, his voice all folksy-friendly. "Technology is supposed to be so great nowadays, but this danged GPS has been screwy since this morning!"

John finally noticed Freeze only wore one of the headbands on his arm.

"I got a real map in here, if you wouldn't mind looking it over with me."

* * *

When Spectrum showed up to the GCPD instead of Batman, Gordon met her with a clear look of skepticism. Maybe it wasn't entirely unwarranted, considering she was a small woman wearing a lighter color scheme than a looming man some skittish criminals swore was actually a vampire. But she'd been at this for a year, dammit, and she knew Batman gave her credit for her contributions to police cases. That credit must have won out; Gordon gestured for her to follow him to the interrogation room.

"Alright," he said outside the door, "do you want to go alone, or do you need a partner?"

"I'm good," she said. Her voice modulator was already less robotic than what she used for the drone, and she'd tweaked it to be a tad deeper than normal for this. 

"Alright, I'll be watching."

She nodded and brought up the appropriate windows on her tablet. After a steadying breath, she opened the door.

MacIntyre had been leaning forward on the table, his fingers intertwined, glaring at anyone who might be watching behind the one-way glass. As soon as he laid eyes on her, he lifted both eyebrows.

"Hello, Patrick," she said, shutting them in together.

He leaned back in his chair and smirked. "The Bat's tech nerd?"

She'd read worse (and grosser) assessments of Spectrum on the internet. "That's the most you've talked since they brought you in, I hear."

He folded his arms and shrugged.

"I get it." She took the seat across from him and swiped her tablet casually. "You think you're still getting a payday. Good to play it safe."

His eyes narrowed.

"Shame that with enough work, someone can go through your past aliases, scrounge up your secret bank account, and lock it down." She propped up the tablet on the table to show what should have been his online account, but the records were grayed out and a notice in red along the top said: _ACCOUNT SUSPENDED._

He leaned forward menacingly. "You little b--"

"You've got nothing to lose in cooperating," she said with an unaffected gaze. "Maybe get some time knocked off-- if we find Freeze."

"I'm no snitch."

She laid the tablet flat. "Either Freeze gets caught and is locked away, or he disappears with his wife and you still have nothing to worry about. He's a one-track mind. There's no way he's thought about you since you failed to bring in Wayne; he's not going to consider that someone gave up the Agency site once he's run off with Nora. He needs to take care of her."

"So what? I'm still no snitch."

"It's kinda heartwarming to see there _is_ honor among thieves. You all still have to work together sometimes, and no one'll work with you if you can't keep your word, right? Don't you wish Freeze got that?"

Silence for a moment. He watched her lean on one elbow while she read through some coding she was working on. Then: "What do you mean?"

"Hm? Oh, well, who wants to work for a guy who lies about compensation?"

He scoffed. "Get your story straight, sweetie. You said you located a transfer."

"Yeah, the first half, right? The second half when Freeze is free and clear. Thing is, when I got to the origin account for the payment, I found it bone dry." She showed him another account, one he'd never seen, at a foreign bank. The balance was exactly zero.

MacIntyre stared at the tablet, then at her, a flush of anger creeping from his neck to his face.

"What a dick, right?"

His fists smacked together and his shoulders hunched with tension. "That cold-blooded prick," he said through his teeth, "is going up to Red Oak Plaza."

"I appreciate your assistance," Tiffany said as she swept up the tablet and rushed out.

Gordon had already shouted orders to the force. "Sheesh," he said as Spectrum replaced her helmet, "I wish our digital forensics had that speed for international accounts."

"They could. Tutorials in photo editing don't take that long," she replied.

She left Gordon's hearty laugh behind to get back to her bike outside, bringing up the comm link to Batman on the way. "Say," she asked as she mounted her bike, "when's the last time you went to the mall?"

* * *

Once upon a time, Red Oak Plaza had been the start of grand plan. The developers wanted the mall to be the go-to shopping hub between the crowded bustle of Gotham City and the neighboring suburbs. After the Plaza was open and attracting consumers, the project would spread across the surrounding undeveloped land: a movie theater, restaurants, and condominiums.

When the economy crashed nationwide, the mall had been in the middle of construction. The two-story T of rentable units for small stores had been completed, and the anchor store at the northwest end of the T was nearly finished. The other two anchors were still only skeletal girders, and when the economy recovered, they stayed that way. The rise of online retailers stifled the developers' ability to find funding to resume construction. Red Oak Plaza had sat unfinished for years.

The Agency surreptitiously acquired the property a little over a year ago. The outside retained the look of abandonment, and an agent was assigned the guise of lone security guard to keep out kids and squatters. On the inside, most of the entrances were blocked off so no trespassers could get in. Two of the few ways in let into the empty department store, through a side door on the north side and at a shipping-and-receiving dock on the south side.

Agent Liang and his partner, Collins, had been assigned to the dock for the past four months. They spent the bulk of their time in a bare, sizable, concrete room with a set of shutters leading out to a raised platform for delivery trucks. A railed ramp off the right side led down to the expanse of gravel and dirt that would never be rolled into parking lots. 

It was one of the duller assignments Liang had been given until they received word that Freeze had escaped. A dozen more agents showed up at the Plaza with containers of specialized anti-asset gear: double-charged gun cartridges, two neutralizing collars, thermal explosives, and portable heat conductors.

Collins had rolled his eyes after opening that last box and taking out a familiar looking tool. "It's called a goddamn hair dryer."

HQ was confident Freeze had followed the false breadcrumbs up north. Liang was disinclined to believe it. For one thing, the guy wasn't stupid-- he'd managed to remove his collar without blowing his skull apart-- and for another thing, the Agency was still grappling with a sudden deterioration in workforce cohesion. A couple years ago, Liang wouldn't have believed it, but now he could see some disillusioned agent letting poor Victor know where dear Nora really was, or even just getting lazy and leaving a monitor with access to just the right information unsecured. Then again, maybe Freeze pieced it together from a combination of screw-ups over the past year.

What mattered was the result: the Plaza team was on the lookout for a miserable, lovesick, grudge-bearing man with the ability to dispense instant frostbite.

When Liang answered the bleep from his walkie-talkie, the wait ended.

"We have word from Waller that Victor Fries is on his way to our location," Agent Sanders said, her voice clipped. "Repeat, Freeze knows the location of the carrot."

"Shit," Collins hissed. He stared at the transceiver with his sandwich halfway to his mouth.

"HQ is sending reinforcements," Sanders went on, "but we are preparing to move out with the cryotube. Billings is bringing the truck. Prepare the dock."

Collins dropped his lunch on their card table and hurried to the delivery door. He rolled it up, revealing their side of the southern stretch of the Plaza, past the rusted skeleton on the tail, to the treeline.

"Be advised that the Batman may also--"

There was an abrupt roaring sound from the eastern side. Plumes of smoke drifted up over the long roof on their left, and after a second, bits of gravel rained down in front of the dock.

"You got eyes on that?" Sanders asked.

"It's not on this side," Liang answered. "What about Billings?"

A long pause. Then, "He's on his way with the truck. I'm sending a crew to investigate East. Do not leave your post. We need the dock clear. The lab is locked down until the truck is in place."

"Got it." Liang clipped the radio back to his pocket.

"Amateur job," Collins said. "Wrong side-- unless it's a distraction."

"For what? If Billings doesn't see anything fishy, we're almost home free."

Collins perked up as a truck rolled into view from the west side, trundling across the uneven terrain. "There he is."

The truck pulled up alongside the bay and stopped. The windows were down and Billings stared ahead over the steering wheel.

Liang frowned and moved toward Collins. Why hadn't Billings backed the truck up? And what happened to the old truck? And what was that thing on his--

Collins had already taken a step back when a bald man with an assault rifle sat up on the passenger side and fired a shot past Billings' face. Liang reached for Collins as he fell, but then the rifle was on him, and the bald man shouted, "Freeze!"

A muffled voice permeated the walls of the cargo area. "I think he's calling you."

"Billings!" Liang exclaimed, but the other agent kept staring. "What the hell is wrong with you?" That weird band around his head, was it actually...?

The back of the truck opened, and Liang's stomach dropped when a blue-skinned man in a specialized jumpsuit hopped into the dirt. He got onto the platform with one high step, using the side of the truck to pull himself up, and approached Liang. He had another one of those bands.

"Don't move," Freeze said, "and this will continue to be painless."

Liang's heart sped up as Freeze brought the band toward his head. But he couldn't run, the gun was pointed directly at...

* * *

When the door rolled up again, it was aligned with the floor of the delivery dock. An agent stood there with Freeze, but the band was around his head and his expression was vacant. A motionless body bled out next to them. Freeze made an adjustment to the microphone and instructed the driver to exit the truck. Beardo grabbed the drawstring bag and ushered John out, but he gestured for Leland to stay.

"Just you, clown," he said.

John walked up to the blank-faced agent and poked him in the chest. No reaction, like a robot waiting for instructions. Baldy climbed up the rise and took a post just inside the truck. Leland sat quietly watching John. The driver stood by the cab, facing the perpendicular wing of the mall.

Freeze spoke to the driver again through the mic. "Go to the roof, to the eastern side. Use your radio to inform your colleagues that their attackers-- us-- are taking cover in the woods."

The man turned and headed for a service ladder that went up the wall.

"How long can an order like that hold up?" Beardo asked.

"If we move quickly, that question won't be a concern," Freeze said. He turned to Baldy. "If I don't check in with you every five minutes, kill her. If John shows up alone, kill her."

John laughed lowly. Five minutes was a good amount of time to get back here after the first check-in, and Baldy would have to see John to know he was alone. And he again had the thought that he could end this right now, if--

"John will cooperate," Leland said. Everyone (except Agent Robot) looked at her, but she kept her eyes on her patient. "We just want this to be over. If there's... trouble, it could pose problems for John's rehabilitation, even if he's acting for our safety. It's not fair, but it could be used against him." Her gaze moved to Freeze. "If you get what you want, we're free to go, right?"

"Of course," Freeze said.

"When Batman showed up, we would've been foolish not to--"

"I have neither the time nor the patience to argue about reasonable human behavior. We go now."

"Okay, John?" Leland said, even as Beardo steered him to follow Freeze and Agent Robot, who'd gone through the large flapping doors into the store.

"Yeah, yeah, happy helper, I get it," he called back. Geez, first she told him he might end up with a new doctor because Freeze dragged them out here, and now if John reacted accordingly, he could make his outcome worse? What a load of bull hockey.

But fine. _Fine._ The disagreement back in the basement aside, Freeze wasn't much of a liar, so John could buy that he just wanted to get the hell out of here with Nora. So if Leland was okay, what did John really care about a bunch of agents who would probably disappear him if they had the chance? What did he care if Waller didn't have Nora anymore? He'd look at the silver linings: fresh air flavored with smoke, an awesome neck bruise for like a week at least, Leland losing her cool, heart-pumping Batman-involved action, seeing Bruce outside of the stale visitor lounge. Unless, of course...

The first floor was a vast empty space, interrupted by just a few rectangular pillars and, in the center, a set of nonworking escalators up to the second floor and down to a sublevel. The entrances to the left and straight ahead had been blocked off by large steel panels. So had the way into the not-mall, except where the Agency had cut out a dim doorway. The only substantial light came from four large flood lamps, evenly spaced apart. 

But Freeze didn't head for the escalators; he stopped at a service elevator just outside the dock doors and pushed the down button. The doors immediately slid open. Inside, a sensor had been installed above the floor buttons. 

"So what happened to Batman?" John asked casually as Freeze snatched the badge clipped to Robot's jacket.

Freeze grunted low in his throat and waved the badge over the sensor, switching its red light to green. "Likely not enough."

Ha, Bruce was definitely fine then, and John could contain himself. After all, once Batman caught up with them, he could handle everything, and John could avoid any... rash decisions. As justified as they could seem.

Freeze's hand went for the button to the lower floor, but John's hand darted out and pushed it first. Freeze raised an eyebrow, but John just smiled. As they descended, Freeze attached the badge to his hip pocket.

The doors opened with a pleasant tone, and John couldn't help but whisper, "Sublevel: swimsuits and dishware." The scientist shot him a warning look and pushed him to follow Robot and Beardo out.

A large octagonal pod was set up between the escalator and the elevator. The pod's metal walls were lit up from four directions by more flood lights. It was about a dozen feet tall, well short of the ceiling, and twice as wide. Supply crates were scattered nearby, on and around a big platform cart. The setup was not as swanky as the secret lab beneath Bodhi spa, but Waller did seem to lean more toward the function side than the fashion side.

"Tell me the truck is there," a female voice called urgently from the other side of the pod. "I don't know what compelled Billings to go on the frickin' roof, but something's going down on East and we need to get the ice floe out of here."

"Ask what agents are down here," Freeze said quietly into the microphone.

"Who is here?" Robot asked dully.

"Me, Ross, Perry, and the techs," the woman said as crossing shadows approached. "Everyone else is at the-- oh!"

It was too small a sound to make after a blast from Freeze's ice gun, but sometimes things weren't as dramatic as John wanted them to be. The woman hit the floor with a clunk, her torso and arms encased in ice. The two men with her retreated, but Freeze got one of them in the legs. Beardo raced around the other side of the pod, and a gunshot indicated when he met up with the second man. He came back around and took the time to nail both the iced agents in their heads with his boot, rendering them still.

John took a closer look as they moved around the lab. As he'd noticed when Freeze took down Spectrum's drone, a shot from the blaster created a casing of ice, unlike a permeating pat from Freeze's glove. Not that an ice hug couldn't end with frostbite.

Freeze pulled Agent Robot to the lab door, in front of another numeric pad, this one with a round lens over it. "Override the door," he said.

The agent entered a code, and lights from the lens scanned his eye. When the door slid open, he didn't move. Beardo went in first, prompting two distinct screams, followed by a man and a woman in white coats bursting out. Freeze immediately hit them with another two ice blasts, and they were on the floor.

"I could just shoot all of them," Beardo said, lingering in the lab doorway.

"They may help as distractions later," Freeze responded as he pushed past.

As Beardo attended to the techs, John followed Freeze, who headed straight to the cryotube in the center of the lab. It was already placed on a cart for transport. Freeze rested his hands on the glass and gazed downward. John crept around to the other side to look in, too.

There was Nora, as much of a distorted periwinkle porcelain doll as ever-- though of course she was. That's what a freezing chamber was for. Preservation. Reliability. A drastic and hopeful reach for the future. It struck John suddenly that the magnetic and sad blue reminded him of Bruce's eyes.

"Start the compound."

John looked up. Freeze hadn't moved. His voice had a rare strain to it, as if he was about to cry, if John didn't know any better.

"Now," Freeze said, finally breaking away.

The perimeter of the room was lined with two separate workstations, each with a computer, plus cabinets, shelves, and a sink. As John started to collect chemicals and equipment, he eyed Freeze, who took the drawstring bag from Beardo, now guarding the doorway. He removed the metal cube, leaving it on the floor, then pulled Robot inside the lab and parked him in front of a duo of fire extinguishers attached to the wall. Freeze chose the one marked CO2. After a minute of positioning, the agent was spraying the tank's contents into the bag, its mouth closed tightly around the hose.

John set an armful of supplies on one of the workstations. "Uh, what's going on with that?"

Freeze eyed John's collection and grabbed a jug that he'd missed, plus the largest beaker available, about eight inches tall. "Make enough to fill that," he said.

The chemicals on the table constituted almost all the lab had. John only hoped the extra zest he'd picked this time would work. The supplies here weren't exactly the same as what had been down in the Old Five Points setup, but John doubted it would be productive to bring that up.

He did say, "It's getting on five minutes, isn't it?"

Beardo pulled out his phone and dialed. "Keep standing by," he said when Baldy answered.

Freeze stood close enough to watch what John was doing but kept his blaster ready. John didn't have problems working under pressure, so he got started, opening containers.

"Maintenance," Freeze suddenly said. "It's all maintenance."

John looked back. Freeze's raised arm trembled, and it looked like he could only see the red of his goggles.

"No supplies for research," he seethed. "Waller just wanted to leave her like this."

"Yeah," John agreed, "she's the worst. But I, your amicable assistant, can't help you if that thing goes off."

Freeze took an almost imperceptible breath and his arm stilled.

John turned back to the table, giggling to himself. Despite his condition, Freeze was certainly a hothead.

It would be a shame, though, when Batman stopped all this. With the Agency on alert, it seemed unlikely that Bruce could just wheel Nora out of here and into the care of WayneBioChemTechMedwhatever scientists. The poor lady would be stuck under Waller. Shut off from the world forever...

John shook the thoughts away. He needed to get into the science groove. He focused on the melding colors, the vanishing bubbles, the drip-drop-plop. Sometimes it sounded like Freeze was about to question or correct him, but he never followed through, and John was mostly tuned into the humming at the back of his mind, helped by the background noise of extinguisher gust.

It hadn't taken very long the first time, so neither did this time. John spun around and presented the compound with a "Ta da!"

Freeze recoiled as the liquid sloshed around the beaker. "And that's just what you did before?"

"Yeah, just about." The brightness of the blue seemed off by a tinge, but not _wrong_.

Freeze scowled, but to John's surprise he opened a port in the mechanism on his chest.

"You're just, ah, gonna go right for it. Okay."

With a pipette, Freeze dropped about an ounce of the compound into his suit, then closed the port. He turned over his gloved arm to watch a digital readout on the underside. He waited. Just the fact that he didn't drop dead was enough of a success to John.

Freeze diverted his attention long enough to order the spraying to stop. Agent Robot let go of the extinguisher's trigger but otherwise didn't change his position.

John gestured to him. "You never said--"

"This analysis puts the efficiency at just twenty-three percent more than my original," Freeze interrupted, "but there are no indications for adverse reactions. It will do. I can revise it later." He opened a compartment at the end of the cryotube's platform. A glass cartridge was partially filled with blue liquid.

"Okay. Okay, great," John said as Freeze filled up the cartridge. "So we're square, right?"

"I did give you my word," Freeze said, looking back at him.

But his eyes flickered to above John's shoulder, and John ducked. Beardo's gun swiped through empty air, and John scrambled in a crouch around the head end of the cryotube. Freeze clapped the compartment shut and rose to his full height.

John chuckled, wagging his finger at Freeze. "Oh, you-- yeeaaggh!" Beardo lunged for him, and John sprang up and vaulted over Nora. He tried to dart for the exit, but reeled away from an ice blast that just missed Agent Robot. Beardo backtracked and blocked the doorway.

"I'm afraid I'm still aggravated about Nora being left in this position to begin with," Freeze said. "So I'm condemning you and these agents to a cold Hell."

"I'd rather not," John said. "My circulation is bad enough as it is." He backed up, glancing at the shelves behind him, and he grabbed a glass bottle and held it over his head. "Step any closer and I'll smash this, and you'll be choking on deadly gas."

"That's saline," Freeze deadpanned.

John really needed to learn the actual particulars of this science stuff. For now, he chucked the bottle, and it nailed Beardo in the neck before shattering on the ground.

"Giggling freak!" Beardo spat, clutching his throat. He came forward with another swing of his gun. John laughed as he leaned back to dodge it-- then yelped as the other man dropped the gun to lunge for his legs and took him down.

"Stay at the door, you imbecile!" Freeze yelled, following their ground scrabble with his weapon.

Beardo dragged John under him, then hurled a fist at his face. John quickly shifted his head to the right and Beardo's knuckles crunched into the solid floor. He howled and John grabbed the straps of his vest and forced him over, straddling him and rapidly punching the red spot on his neck. Enraged and wheezing, Beardo grabbed John by the hair and throat and flipped their positions again.

Maybe Freeze didn't realize Beardo would do that, maybe he thought the gunman was holding John still for his shot, maybe he was just annoyed, but in the instant Beardo's head took up the space where John's had been, the blaster went off. John watched a coating of thick ice overtake the other man's head. The density and frost obscured his expression, but he sat back on his knees and started to pound his fists on his head. John quickly slid out from under him, which was a good move; in desperation, Beardo started to slam his head on the ground. His chest spasmed, searching for air.

As he got to his feet, John couldn't help but watch, entranced. "That's a breathtaking weapon," he chuckled, instead of paying attention. Freeze's next shot caught him on the shoulder and he stumbled back between the sink and a cabinet. Freeze fired again, this time in a stream, expanding the ice across John's torso and sticking him to the wall.

Beardo finally collapsed. Freeze didn't spare the body a glance as he wheeled Nora's tube halfway out the door. He dragged the cube thing to center stage now, and then he took the bag from the agent, whose pose still didn't change. John struggled all the while, but the ice's hold was solid. His skin was already going numb.

Freeze opened the cube, then unscrewed and removed the inner lid. He dumped in the contents of the bag-- solid white chunks, smoking slightly-- and added some water from the sink before replacing the inner lid. The remainder of John's compound was poured next, and the piping along the sides filled with baby blue.

"Wait, a dry ice bomb?" John exclaimed. "Little on the nose, don't you think?"

Freeze screwed the top cap back on, then used his blaster to seal it with a thick icy coating. "I find it suitable," he said, as he stuck the cube to the floor in the same way. "There's no precise time for it to go off, but I hope it's long enough for you to sit with the hopelessness. The same hopelessness I felt knowing that my wife was being held like property. Sure that no one was trying to help her. Wondering if she would die-- or if she already had." He looked right at John. "At least you get to know that Dr. Leland is gone."

"No," John said, watching him pluck the phone out of Beardo's back pocket and dial. "You said-- _you said_ \--"

"Kill her," Freeze said coolly into the phone.

No, no, John had told himself this wasn't going to happen. _This wasn't supposed to happen._ He looked around for something in reach to jab into the ice, but he couldn't get into the cabinet like this and the sink was empty. He beat on the slab with his fist, but it didn't crack.

"I'm going to rip those tubes out of your chest and ram them into your eyes!" he snarled.

Freeze dropped the phone and lifted the mic to his mouth. "Tell everyone to get back here."

The agent raised his walkie-talkie and spoke into it, but John didn't hear. He was trying to use his teeth to carve himself free, but it was too little, too slow, and it had already been long enough for that bald bastard to... to...

There was a crackling sound, and John looked up just as Agent Robot froze entirely from Freeze's palm on his back, the band hanging off Freeze's arm again. He nudged the statue as he walked away, and when it hit the ground, the head and arms broke off.

"Perhaps I won't get to Wayne," Freeze said, taking hold of the cart, "but I am satisfied knowing he'll have to identify your corpse."

He pushed Nora out the door as John screamed after him.

* * *

There were a couple ways to Red Oak Plaza, and Bruce took the back road, which cut over a hill through the trees that surrounded the abandoned site. He stopped the car to take a quick assessment from the high ground. He was looking from the south side, where the construction of one of the department stores had barely begun before it was abandoned. On the western side of the T, he noticed right away a white boxtruck parked at the completed store. On the eastern side, he could see a scatter of agents assembling near the tree line, plus a figure standing where the roof ended and the other unfinished construction began.

"I'm taking the car right up to the plaza," Bruce said. "I can see the truck at the west side, but there's something attracting agents to the other end."

"I'll see what's going on with them," Tiffany replied. "ETA is six minutes."

"Watch out for an agent on the roof."

"Got it."

Bruce rolled the car quietly down the hill and toward to the dock. There didn't seem to be anyone behind the tinted windshield of the truck, and no one was on the platform either. He took the car just around the corner and parked it there, then crept back on foot.

His ears perked when he heard a beeping phone and gruff voice answering, "Yeah?" Bruce flipped on his thermal vision and scanned the truck. There were two figures in the cargo hold, the first-- broader, taller-- standing close to the platform, the second sitting on the floor further in.

"Got it," the gunman said. "Bad news, lady."

"You don't have to do this," Leland said quietly.

"You didn't have to burn Davey's eyes out," he said matter-of-factly. "But sometimes things get personal."

Bruce slinked quietly but quickly up the ramp; he could see the open back of the truck and the bald man lifting his rifle. He noted the agent in a pool of blood and kept moving.

"For me, though, it's all business," the goon went on. "I'll make it quick."

Now Bruce could see Leland, slowly standing, showing no appreciation for the clinical approach. But her eyes flashed with hope when she spotted Batman as he crept up. He slung his arm around the gunman's throat and locked it tight, using the momentary panic to rip the weapon away and throw it to the ground. The other man tried to thrash, but Bruce held tight, and after minute the resistance became sluggish. Leland watched silently with her hands pressed over her chest, until the gunman went limp.

Bruce cuffed his arms around the section of railing that turned onto the platform, then moved to take care of the gun. Suddenly Leland flung her arms around him and pressed her face into his armor. Before he could hold her reassuringly, she abruptly pulled away and looked up with distress.

"If they were going to kill me, they--" She shook her head. "I told John it was going to be fine. I--"

"I'll find him," Bruce said.

"He might already--"

"I'll find him," he said again, because John was remarkably resilient and unbelievably lucky, and those qualities couldn't fail today. Bruce wasn't ready if they did. "My car is around the corner. It survived the earlier incident fine. I want you to get in and stay there."

Her doubt never left her face, but she nodded.

He tapped several keys on his gauntlet. "When you're in, push the flashing button and the car will go on lockdown. You'll be safe."

"Thank you," she said quickly, placing a hand on his arm. Then she hurried down the ramp.

Bruce quickly dismantled the gun and headed inside.

John's raging voice echoed from wall to wall, but he was nowhere in sight. Bruce sprinted to the escalators-- a beep sounded from his gauntlet, indicating the Batmobile had locked down-- and paused at the barrier around the opening in the floor. The noise clearly came from below, and he jumped over, landing halfway down the flight and charging the rest of the way. He saw a metallic pod, another drained body, and four more unconscious agents partially wrapped in ice.

And beyond that, Freeze vanished into the far wall with the cryotube, followed by the ping of an elevator.

Cursing, Bruce rushed toward John's voice-- just noise, no words-- and into the lab. He took in the scene: the ice-covered, blue-lined cube in the middle of the room; the frozen, broken body of an agent; the dead gunman on the floor, beard sticking out from the ice globe enclosing his head; and John near the doorway, attached to the wall by a thick slash of ice across his Arkham shirt, from his left side up over his right shoulder.

John's right arm was pinned, and he pounded on the ice with his left fist, growling. His lipstick was smeared and the ice over his shoulder had a pink tinge. Purpling bruises ringed his throat. He didn't seem to notice Batman come in, even when Bruce called his name. He started clawing at the ice.

Bruce grabbed John's wrist before he could tear off his nails. "John!"

The other man looked at him, and his eyes were blazing but focused, electric green, and Bruce forgot to breathe. John looked too much like when--

"Bruce!" A flicker of recognition came back to those eyes, and John yanked his hand away only to latched onto Bruce's arm. "He told Baldy to kill her! They killed her!" He let go and started banging on the ice again, teeth flashing as he raved. "That _vile. disgusting. liar_ \--"

Bruce firmly held John's head still, gloves under his jaw. "Look at me, John."

He did, and his eyes were wild again. " _They killed_ \--"

"Leland is okay, John."

John went still. "She-- what?"

"I found her. She's safe. I made sure."

Chest rising and falling with quick, intense breaths, John just stared at him.

"What is this on the floor?"

"Ice... ice bomb. Dry ice." John snickered, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

Bruce let go of him and looked back at cube. No timer in sight.

"She's safe," John said, laugh abruptly gone.

"Yes," Bruce said, turning back, "in the Batmobile."

"That's good," John said. His voice was oddly measured.

A blip sounded from a frosted walkie-talkie lying next to the agent's arm stump. "Liang, we're almost through the mall."

Bruce took out a batarang and put it in John's hand. "Use this. Be careful." He went over and picked up the radio. "This is Batman," he said into it. He heard John hacking away behind him. "Do not approach. Freeze left an explosive device that could go off at any time."

"But-- Jesus Christ," said the agent on the other end. "Where is Freeze then?!"

"Your concern should be evacuating this building." Bruce crouched in front of the bomb, ensuring it had no indicators of any time he may have to pick through the ice and disable it. "I'll bring out your colleagues."

"You don't give the orders--"

"Evacuate." Bruce tossed the walkie-talkie away and turned back to John. Chunks of ice dropped from John's arm and he lurched from the wall. Bruce went to him and examined the bare skin of his right arm. It was slightly blue, but he hadn't cut himself. "Looks like you weren't stuck long."

John seemed unconcerned, lost in his head, still gripping the batarang.

Bruce shook his arm. "John, are you with me?"

The other man looked at him. "Uh huh."

"I need you to help me, okay?"

"Okay." John giggled, his free hand pulling at the hair behind his ear. "Ooookay."

Bruce took hold of his shoulders. "John, do your breathing exercises for me, okay? There's a cart out there, and we're going to wheel everyone out."

"Mm hm."

John was struggling, but Bruce couldn't help him if the bomb went off. He told John again to breathe, then tore himself away. He'd be fast, get everyone out of here, then he could take John aside and calm him.

Outside the pod, Bruce pushed a crate off the cart, then wheeled it to the bound agents. He'd have to pile them like potato sacks, but that was supremely better than being flash frozen. He loaded a woman with her arms stuck to her sides first; the ice made her twice as heavy.

"John," he called, "can you give me a hand?"

John didn't emerge; instead, he started laughing again, tweaking the hair on the back of Bruce's neck. Bruce returned to the pod. With his back to to the doorway, John was crouched over the bearded man.

"This one deserved worse than a head cold," he tittered.

"Buddy," Bruce said as he walked over, boots crunching on broken glass, "we need to get out of here _now_."

John didn't move. "It's not okay," he said quietly, humor gone again.

Bruce squatted beside him and put an arm around his back. "You're okay and Leland is okay," he said, pulling John up.

Then he noticed the round object in John's left hand, the familiar contours of the incendiary grenade, and he stopped. "John--"

"It's not okay!" John screamed, and his right arm should have been numb, but he deftly detached the grapple gun from Bruce's waist and shoved away.

In a moment he was gone, and Bruce scrambled after him with a shout. When he made it to the door, John was already nearing the escalator, too far for the gauntlet anchor, and Bruce flung a batarang at his legs. John didn't look back, just preternaturally jumped when the weapon almost caught his calf. He grabbed hold of the escalator handrail and pulled himself over the balustrade. The batarang skidded across the floor.

Heart pounding, Bruce looked at the subdued agents as a soft sizzling noise emitted from the cube.

* * *

_"But I messed up! Real bad. Worse than bad."_

_"A doctor should not fire their patient because of a relapse, John. On the other hand, if you feel someone else's approach can serve you better, I can--"_

_"No! No, this is fine."_

Flying out of the lab.

_"I'm broken! We talk talk talk and all I understand is that I'm wrong."_

_"Actions are wrong. Wrongness is not a fundamental trait of a person."_

_"People don't think like that outside of the loony-- outside of here."_

_"Many don't, no. But what about Bruce?"_

Climbing, pounding up the idle escalator.

_"John, it's okay. Breathe with me. One, two, three, four..."_

Racing across the white, wide linoleum floor.

_"We can wrong people if we focus too much on what they mean to us instead of what we should mean to them."_

_"If she got sick, I was going to take care of her!"_

_"Say I made life here very comfortable, but said you would never leave. Would you understand that as me caring about you?"_

_"... No. And you wouldn't do that."_

Bursting through the doors to the dock. 

_"We're going to work on this together like we always have."_

Just a few yards in front of him, the truck was rolling away, trundling over the rumpled terrain like it was just that easy. John laughed. He pulled the batarang Bruce had given him out of his waistband and drew it back. His eyes locked onto the right rear tire, and as he whipped his arm forward he knew it would be a bull's eye. He was already aiming the grapple when the tire blew and the truck swerved, kicking up dust. As it came to a stop, John fired, watching the line make the distance, hearing the ching as the claw locked onto the red-and-white striped dock bumper below the door.

Nevertheless, the truck started moving again. John pulled the line to the railing while there was still give, and he looped the grip around the top rail and back through the loop in the line. He braced his foot against the bottom rail and yanked tight, then let go as the truck pulled the cord taut. The grip caught in the loop, too narrow now for it to slip through, the fiber too high-grade to break, and John cackled as the truck jolted, the railing bending slightly.

John vaulted over it into the sunlight, the ground crunching under his feet as he ran. The cab door popped open and Freeze tumbled onto the ground, hand on his head, a disoriented target.

But not the perfect one for John's clawing impulses.

He reached the back of the truck, jerked open the latch, and pushed the door up. He crawled inside, hearing Freeze's boots scrabbling. The generators had been pushed aside to make room for the cryotube on the right, still on the cart, which had slid askew. John grabbed the handle with one hand and presented the grenade with the other as Freeze stopped just outside, his face a delightful mixture of anger and horror.

John cackled and swayed the cart, left, right, left, right. "Could this day get any worse?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, the exciting conclusion! :O (Probably in 3-4 weeks, per my history.)
> 
> Thanks to everyone keeping up with this little adventure. I appreciate any and all comments!


	6. The Long View

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my god, this chapter kicked my ass. But IT'S DONE PLEASE ENJOY

John switched the grenade to his left hand, sliding his index finger through the loop of the pin, and held it right over Nora's chamber. All he had to do was _pop_ the pin right out and let the capsule clatter over the tube, roll underneath and out of reach. Freeze knew that; his hands were up, palms on display to show he didn't have anything but the glove on his right hand and the band hanging from his left elbow. A bloody splotch decorated his forehead, betraying his lack of seatbelt safety. A laugh rumbled through John's chest and shook his shoulders.

"John," Freeze started, "don't--"

"Don't hurt some helpless woman who has no fault in any of this?" John guffawed. "Is that what you're going to say?"

Freeze gestured back toward the store. "You must have seen--"

"Your cretin all tied up and Leland escaped? Yup, everything is just peachy!" John leaned forward and sneered, "Once again, _you didn't know that._ " Freeze had no response, and John held out his free hand. "Hand over the mind control thing and the glove."

The scientist eyed him warily.

John repeatedly banged the grenade against the glass of the tube. "Come on, Victor!" he shouted. "For once, Nora doesn't have all day!"

Freeze quickly removed the band and tossed it at John's feet, then began disengaging the glove from his arm. John picked the band up and flung it over Freeze's head. It flew like a frisbee, arcing to the right. When the glove hit the floor, John used his foot to send it sliding back to the generators.

"This could have gone so differently!" he overly lamented. "I was willing to look past so much. I mean, I haven't had this much excitement in a year." He shrugged. "But now we're doing this."

Freeze hesitated, eyes locked on the cryotube. "We don't have to."

"Oh, _now_ we don't have to, huh?" John cackled, shaking his head. "You're ridiculous! So stupid! Bruce would have helped you, if you asked. You could've run straight from the Agency to his office, and he would've helped you. But that's not what you did, because you're a bad person." His volume leaped. "If you make bad choices over and over again, what else are you?!"

"This is a bad choice," Freeze said, so carefully. "Remember what Dr. Leland said."

John kicked the cart, slamming it and the tube into the side of the truck, and Freeze jerked back, throwing his hands up again.

"I know what she said!" John snarled. "I've been in therapy with her my whole life! And I was doing better again..." He giggled, dragging his fingers through his hair. "Or I was starting to believe that. Then you came back around and reminded me of alllll the reasons I should've lopped Waller's head off. Maybe I could be a good person if there was more time, if you'd waited six more months, a year, I don't know. Maybe never."

"If you do this," Freeze said, still trying, bless his snowball heart, "you won't get the chance to know."

"Oh, that chance is gone, thanks to you!" John snapped. "They're going to take Leland away from me! You didn't kill her, but I'm still going to lose her!"

He tapped the grenade lightly along the length of the glass, _tik tik tik._ "Psychiatric treatment is very delicate, Freeze." _Tik tik._ "Finding the right doctor is crucial." _Tik tik-tik tik._ "A doctor who doesn't dismiss you as hopeless, who has infinite patience, who can see your best even when you wrap yourself in your worst." He laughed again. "Can see you in the outside world, riding a bus, buying groceries, making rent, seeing friends."

John felt his outstretched arm shake. "It's so simple and nice-- but it's so impossible with people _like you_ coming around to ruin it. And me. I did that to people, too. Maybe this is karma, you screwing it up for me, and me screwing things up for you."

Leland would say there was a difference between him and Freeze, in that John was-- had been-- trying to reorient himself. Bruce would say that, too. It would have been great to succeed for them, to show Bruce especially that even if John couldn't be good in Bruce's way, he could find a way of his own. And they wouldn't patrol the streets together, but they could hang out freely, not in a monitored lounge, not under pretenses. They could talk about anything at all, go anywhere at all, do anything at all.

John had missed out on so much freedom before, when he was so focused on pleasing Harley, and anything she did to help him was in service of her goals. Bruce wanted to help with John's goals, not even knowing what they were. He liked to see John even if John couldn't do anything for him. He still thought John could be good in spite of everything, including a trail of bodies.

After today, Bruce would finally be dispelled of that notion. John couldn't scrounge up the compassion Bruce could. Freeze was mean and cruel, and he had to be stopped-- ended-- and John knew this because he was mean and cruel, too. He needed to stop trying to be something else, needed Bruce to accept that, even if it meant Bruce would stop visiting, because if John was never getting out, if Bruce was always going to be a table-length away, what was John working toward?

More than ever, he was sure Nora would hate knowing she was sealed in this horrible test tube.

An explosion from the mall, heard but not seen, shook the ground and rattled the truck. John stumbled and Freeze suddenly lunged forward, but John recovered quickly and kicked him under the chin. Freeze tumbled back onto the hard dirt.

"Anyway!" John chirped as Freeze got up. "I'm not gonna blow us up, unless you object to the alternative."

Back in the lab, one of Beardo's vest pockets held a cute little switchblade. John had taken that first, tucked it into his sock. He retrieved it now with his right hand, springing the blade.

He wiggled the knife in his fingers. "You and me can keep this personal," he said, "or you can take the alternative." He tapped the grenade on the tube again. _Tik-tik._

After long, labored breaths, Freeze rasped. "I won't have Nora harmed because of our animosity."

John took a long step back, the grenade over Nora's face now, and pointed the blade at the spot in front of him. "Then sit like a dutiful little husband, and we'll get this over with."

Freeze climbed into the truck to kneel at John's feet. John clicked his tongue, thinking. Right across the throat would be most efficient. There wasn't time to brainstorm something more creative, something Freeze deserved. Someone was bound show up any minute.

Fists on his knees, Freeze looked up. "Share your sympathy for Leland with my Nora," he asked. "If Wayne really will care for her, ask him to follow through."

John couldn't even muster a laugh. How was that going to happen? With the Agency around and the cops definitely on their way, how would Batman sneak Nora out of here? And John could throw a bunch of liquids together, but even if he sped off in the truck, he didn't know what to do with a cryotube. And even if he got her to Bruce, or Bruce did manage to steal her away to Wayne Enterprises, Waller would know it was him. The Agency could get her back as federal "property."

Nora was doomed to be packed into a government freezer, which wasn't fair, but John knew very well that life wasn't fair. The only half of John's life he could remember took place in a mental hospital, trying to mitigate and manage a persistent illness he never asked for. And Nora's body had turned on her, eaten itself away, and then her husband transformed her into an oblivious popsicle. Tragedy was much more widespread than fairness.

That fact had compelled Batman on his crusade. Yet he still couldn't see John's point of view, still insisted it was important to do the noble thing even in the face of supreme awfulness. Even if Bruce couldn't rescue Nora, he'd do something to tip the scale toward fairness, even a bit. Well, Bruce wasn't here to make that choice. John was here.

John was... here to...

Freeze's brow furrowed at the delay, or maybe at something in John's face, and John brought the knife under his chin. "Shut up! I'm thinking!" he barked.

Or he was trying to unthink, to pull apart the ideas creeping into his head, because his course was already set. Freeze was heartless scum who didn't care who he hurt, and he was going to stop, once and for all. If that put Nora in a bad position, similar to one John once feared he'd end up in, well, dear Victor had put her there to start with, so this was _not_ John's responsibility!

Of course, tracking Freeze didn't have to be Bruce's responsibility.

No, _no_ , John was done trying to emulate Bruce. John was not a hero; pretending he could be was just a consequence of denial, and it only led to misery. This was not going to end with him doing what Bruce would do.

Though, there were alternatives to what Bruce would do...

For the love of-- why would John help her? He didn't have to!

Just like Bruce didn't have to help anyone.

Including John.

The light coming into the truck glanced off the raised scar on the back of his trembling hand.

"You are the worst!" John shouted at Freeze, who looked bewildered as spittle landed on his goggles. "This is the worst! You can't just... I can't..."

The vicious thing inside him had crept up in the lab, spurred him to this point, but now it was dissolving like cotton candy. Left behind were Dr. Leland's instructive voice, the specter of Bruce's disappointment and _sadness_ , and a rainbow of possibilities other than the red of Freeze bleeding out.

Ugh.

Another kick to Freeze's chest knocked him on his back. John grasped the knife in his teeth and snatched the glove from the floor behind him. He yanked out the pin of the grenade-- Freeze shouted in horror-- and stuffed the ball into the sleeve. He stepped over the other man to the end of the truck and threw the glove into the distance.

As it tumbled in the dirt, John returned the knife to his hand and turned back around. Freeze had pulled himself to his feet, his arms braced on Nora's tube. The grenade exploded, and he tucked his face between his arms as a rush of air and grit flew into the cargo hold and hit John's back.

When Freeze lifted his head, he stared at John like he was insane, which... Hey, neither of them got a gold star today.

John jabbed the blade forward. "Take your dumb wife and go!" he snapped. "And if she's really all you care about, then stay away from my friends-- from Gotham! Okay?!"

Freeze blinked, and his lips parted as if to reply, but he only nodded.

"And learn better manners!" John threw in. "Maybe if you were polite, you wouldn't have to abduct people to help you!"

Another nod.

John went to hop out of the truck, but he groaned. "Okay," he said, turning back, "'dumb' was not a nice--"

Freeze's fist slammed into his sternum.

* * *

After John left him, Bruce had moved double-time, using a batarang to trigger the elevator to gain possibly crucial seconds to load the frozen agents onto the cart. But it wasn't long before three other agents raced down the escalator, having ignored his earlier instruction. As two of them helped Batman with the last survivor, the third noticed that the elevator wasn't coming down. Freeze must have used his blaster to disable it. The plan quickly changed.

They each grabbed a frozen agent, carrying them any way they could, Bruce going with bridal style. They lugged their burdens as quickly as they could to the escalator. Bruce led the way, and as he reached the top, the agent behind him shouted, "Into the mall!" He veered right, toward a rectangle of faint daylight.

He was close to the doorway when the explosion happened, a thundering below. With a burst of speed, he raced through and set his charge down next to an empty fountain, in a stretch of light from the skylights along the ceiling. He turned back in time to see the department store fall dark, as the disappearing chunks of linoleum took the last flood light with them. One agent, then the next, lumbered through with their comrades, and Batman knew that the final pair wasn't going to make it. He shot two anchors into the floor, then aimed for the faint figures at the edge of the store. He launched the other ends, then ran to the doorway as the figures dropped from sight.

A couple feet of flooring was left, and Bruce knelt there as he activated the cowl's nightvision. He looked over the edge, and the wires had grabbed the gasping agent by her belt and the unconscious tech by the crust of the ice binding him. Bruce pulled the tech up first, not sure if a layer of ice would break off, and the other agents dragged him into the mall. The dangling agent grabbed onto the flooring as soon as Bruce lifted her high enough to reach it. She said breathless thanks as she stumbled to join the others.

Bruce gazed around the darkness to survey the damage. Most of the floor was replaced by a gaping hole lined with massive spikes of ice. Below was a frosty crater, with no identifiable remnants of the laboratory, but definite pieces of the escalator. The flight to the second floor was partially intact, suspended from the ceiling. A cold mist floated in the air. To Bruce's left, one of the spikes had driven through the right dock door; there was enough perimeter flooring left to carefully but swiftly make his way over.

He burst through the unpierced door onto the dock. His lenses switched back to their normal setting, and he took a moment to adjust, to breathe. The goon he'd cuffed to the railing was still there, but now part of the railing was bent, his grapple tied to the top rail. His eyes followed the cord far into the dirt lot, to a blotch of green on the sunbleached ground.

He sprinted the distance in seconds, more than enough time to think of all his worst fears, the array of trauma that could be experienced in the mere minutes since John ran off (since Bruce chose not to abandon the agents, since Bruce chose not to chase after him).

_"So the barista takes the wiffle bat-- wait, no, she doesn't until after..."_

_"You're lucky we're playing with snacks, or I'd own the Wayne empire by now."_

_"I said, 'Why fight? We're already a couple of cut-ups!' Zsasz didn't laugh, but he didn't stab me either."_

_"Well, this is the best day of the week, and purple is the best color, so..."_

_"Noooo, don't tell me! I'll know what a larder is when I get to see it."_

_The alley walls closed in as the blood followed the divots in the concrete._

His leg guards skidded on the dirt as he fell to his knees. "John!" he cried, hands hovering over John's body, knowing it was best not to move him if he was injured, afraid that the precaution didn't matter. Fresh blood splotched his shirt, and he lay still, sprawled, silent. Leaning over him, Bruce activated the sensors in his glove and carefully cupped John's bruised neck. He stared at John's smeared red mouth, looking for a sign of breath.

The readout on his gauntlet showed a steady pulse.

"John," he said again, in a soft exhale as those short green lashes fluttered open.

John blinked slowly.

"Can you say something? Do you feel any pain?"

John lifted his hand slowly but steadily, pausing as the mystified look in his eyes cleared. Then he reached up and tapped the cowl between Bruce's eyes. "Do the lenses really need to glow in daylight?" he rasped.

Bruce wanted to laugh, but a heavy relief settled in his chest. "They're on the lowest setting." John started to push himself up, but Bruce moved his hand to hold down his shoulder. "Hold on. Do you remember what happened with Freeze?"

John looked at him for a moment, then said, "He didn't back over me. I guess we came to an understanding."

"What understanding?"

"It would be rude language, Bruce. Let's not be crass." John closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Bruce took the moment to lift up his shirt, peel the blood-spotted fabric from his white stomach. There was some blood at his waistband, too. Bruce inspected the shallow cuts, how the points and curves in John's skin could connect into a familiar outline: the batarang Bruce had given him earlier.

John was watching him, and Bruce tugged the shirt back down and sat back to give him some space. "What did you do?" he asked, careful to not sound accusatory.

"I didn't kill him," John said. His gaze didn't break.

"That's good."

"I wanted to-- I could have-- but I didn't."

"You did the right thing."

"I blew up his glove."

"Good thinking."

"I let him go."

The smile edging onto Bruce's mouth slipped away. "You... you what?" He finally noticed the wheel tracks on the ground leading past a small crater, surrounded by bits of black material and blue tubing, and up to the back road.

"It seemed like the best option."

"He killed people today."

"Yeah, but Nora didn't." John anticipated Bruce's next words. "You couldn't keep her from Waller."

"I..." Bruce knew all the scenarios, the pitfalls, the likelihoods. John wasn't necessarily wrong. But still. "John, I'm glad you didn't kill him, but I can't just let him go free."

"I did what I did," John said matter-of-factly, looking up at the sky. "You do what you do."

Bruce watched him as he put a call through on his gauntlet. "Gordon, we need eyes looking for that white truck, leaving the Plaza south. Freeze is on the move again." Gordon gave the affirmative, said he'd put Montoya on it and that he was almost there.

When Bruce ended the call, John asked, "Aren't you going after him?"

"I'm not leaving you here with agents around." Not to mention, according to the Batmobile's diagnostics, it might not be the best idea to put it through a chase at the moment.

John smiled slightly. "Sticking around for little ol' me." The smile straightened to a line. "More than I did for you."

"It's fine, John. You still did okay."

"It doesn't feel okay."

"How does it feel?"

"I don't know." The line sloped into a frown.

A moment passed. "You can be sure of one thing."

"Yeah?"

"This day would have gone better if Freeze had only given you the cold shoulder."

John looked almost shocked, and then he laughed, happily and long, and Bruce ignored the urge to thumb away the errant lipstick, to leave his smile clean and defined.

"Oh, man, if only he wasn't so literal!" John propped himself up on his elbows and reached for Bruce. "Let's see Leland, if she hasn't had a heart attack."

Bruce took his hand but only helped him sit up. "I'll unlock the car. I'm sure she'll come to us. Take it easy."

John rolled his eyes and sat back on his hands. "Fiiiine."

As he tapped the gauntlet controls, Bruce turned his head to watch the Batmobile parked in the distance. Sure enough, Leland immediately opened the passenger door and clambered out. An unrelated beep sounded in his cowl.

"Are you OK?" Tiffany asked.

"Freeze is disarmed, but he got away." Bruce answered. "The police are on his tail. John and Leland are safe."

"Should I go after Dr. Lonelyheart?" Tiffany asked. "The agents have regrouped and a pack are heading over. That guy on the roof was wearing a mind control device, part of some distraction plan. The explosions in the trees must have been another part of it. Looks like they were planted earlier, I guess yesterday, if not early this morning."

"Where's the device?"

"I ran off with it before Waller's flunkies could ask too many questions."

Bruce saw movement eastward. Tiffany was rounding the lower wing of the mall on foot.

John gestured in her direction, and at first Bruce thought he was waving, but then he said, "The other headband thing, I threw it over there."

"You hear that?" Bruce asked Tiffany.

He could see her checking the ground. "Yeah, I'm looking."

"There were only two," John said. "Freeze has the controller, but fat lot of good it'll do him now."

Tiffany paused, and then she ran a few yards and picked something up. "Okay, we're good," she said.

A cluster of people in dark suits appeared from where she'd come, and the sound of running came from behind Bruce. When he looked back, Leland was close to reaching them. Beyond her, several GCPD cars rolled past the Batmobile.

"Crap," John hissed.

"What?" Bruce said.

"This is the first chance we've had to talk without having to worry about what someone will hear." John bit his lip.

Bruce smiled apologetically. "At least you got to get a little dolled up."

John smirked. "Oh, this won't be the first time, don't you worry."

Leland finally knelt at John's side. Her eyes were glued to the blood stains. "I thought he just hit you--"

John waved her off. "Scratches! I'm fine. Victor is a wimp." He thumped his chest with his fist as if to prove his constitution, then winced. "An angry wimp," he corrected, "who can't even be happy for a favor."

She touched his shoulder. "I could see you go after him," she said evenly.

John got very still and looked anywhere but at her. "I, uh, was upset."

"It looked like you made some choices," she said, not praising, but affirming. "We can talk about it later."

He settled on staring at the ground. "You think we will?"

Bruce wasn't sure what that meant, but then Tiffany was in front of him, slightly out of breath. She held two metal bands in one hand and slung off a small backpack with the other. She looked from the approaching agents to a point behind Bruce. "Confrontation imminent," she said warily, tucking the bands away.

As she put the pack back on, six agents stopped on Bruce's left and Gordon led a group of officers to a spot on his right. The two sides stared each other down with mutual disapproval. John's eyes darted from one to the other, clearly not too fond of his chances with either.

Gordon appraised him with raised eyebrows. While Leland had a couple scrapes, John was a plain mess. "An ambulance is on the way. We'll get all that looked at before we interview."

One of the agents stepped forward, hands on his hips. "Agent Laughton. This is Agency jurisdiction."

"Like hell it is," Gordon snapped. "This operation of yours brought a dangerous man into my city, endangering the citizens, and you didn't even have the decency to warn us. We've been searching for these two all day. You don't get to pretend to have control now." He gestured to John. "Not to mention the conflict of interest."

"What time is it anyway?" John murmured to Leland. "Did we miss lunch?"

Bruce scanned the line of police officers. They all seemed to have decided to ignore John and back up their commissioner, judging by their determined expressions and aggressive stances.

"You don't have the authority here," Laughton declared.

"I'm taking the authority," Gordon retorted. "We're waiting for the ambulance, and these two"-- he indicated John and Leland-- "are going in it. You can ask any questions at Gotham General."

"You can't--"

"I am. If you want to explain to Waller and her adoring press why you got into an altercation with police officers while trying to deny Doe medical care, go ahead."

Laughton sneered. "Fine. But this one"-- he looked at Tiffany-- "has valuable evidence."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Tiffany replied coolly, folding her arms. Bruce caught a subtle movement, her finger pressing a button on her arm guard.

"Like hell you don't!" the lead agent barked. "Freeze was using some kind of device to catch us off guard, and you're not going to just walk away with it."

"You're right," Tiffany said. "Look out."

Her motorcycle zipped around the south end of the mall, and the agents scattered when it ran straight at them to get to Tiffany. The bike came to a sudden stop in front of her, and she jumped on, gave Batman a quick salute, and sped away up the back road.

Laughton threw out orders and the other agents dashed off to get their vehicles and give chase. Bruce felt no concern, having seen data from Tiffany's time trials. Laughton also must have known she was long gone, since he walked up to Batman with wide, useless, indignant gestures.

"I don't know who you think you are!" he shouted. "Is this how you stop crime? By refusing to cooperate with people who have the same goal?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Bruce said.

John cackled.

* * *

The Channel 10 News logo spun before retreating to the corner of the screen, making way for the two normally cheery anchors at the desk. Tonight, their expressions were downgraded to mildly concerned.

"Good evening, and happy New Year," began the male anchor. "Glad to have you back from vacation, Cheryl."

"Thanks, Barry," his counterpart replied, then turned her gaze to the camera. "What do you say we get right to the top story of the day-- or rather of the past month: the release of John Doe from Arkham Asylum."

Barry nodded earnestly. "Reporter Alex Sanchez reports from outside the city courthouse. Alex?"

A young woman with a pixie cut wearing a neat button-up stood on the courthouse steps. "Thanks, Barry," she said into her microphone. "Tomorrow morning, in this very building, a hearing will take place to officially sign off on Doe's release. But it seems long after that, everyone will still be asking if justice was served, or if they saw a different strain of corruption."

The pre-recorded part of the segment started with a six-month old shot of John, bloodied and bruised, being escorted with Dr. Leland into Gotham General Hospital. Alex narrated. "The aftermath of the Agency scandal was fraught with questions about the state of the city's mental healthcare and law enforcement ethics. Those questions only intensified after the June abduction of Doe and his doctor from Arkham Asylum, when it was revealed that a public employee had a role in the planning."

Now a candid image of a dark-haired woman, taken from social media. "Lillian Fremont maintains she provided asylum blueprints to the kidnappers under duress, but the Department of Health was still forced to refute accusations of a conspiracy to put Mr. Doe in harm's way in retaliation for his legal fights with the city. A statement from Doe's attorney did not reject this theory."

A clip of Joanne Dumfree from the early fall, outside the courthouse. "It is curious that city-maintained documents directly relating to my client's safety were so easily compromised," she said. "But however the investigation of the abduction ends, previously established facts have already demonstrated the city's allergy to responsibility for all citizens, not just those who can line officials' pockets."

A blurry cell phone photo of Freeze looming over John and Leland after the failed rescue attempt. Alex continued, "Dumfree had no comment regarding witnesses' claims that they saw a blue-skinned man wielding an ice-spraying weapon. This is likely due to a reported gag order secured by the Agency, only bolstering rumors that they conscript criminals into their ranks. The man was not among the perpetrators taken into custody by Gotham police."

Alex at the courthouse again, continuing her narration. "The battle between Doe and the Department of Health ended abruptly last month when they came to a controversial agreement to settle the charges from both sides. And just a day later, a second development..."

A clip of an announcement shortly after Thanksgiving, by Arkham's Lead Psychiatrist, Dr. Connor Fielding. "For more than a year and a half, Mr. Doe has not only been responsive and receptive to treatment, but demonstrated excellent behavior, even after his stressful abduction. After careful evaluation by myself and his treating psychiatrist, Dr. Monroe, we have determined it is appropriate to release him from Arkham to a transitional program."

A shot of John's grinning Arkham file photos. "Dr. Fielding denied that his evaluation of Doe was influenced by the legal maneuvering with the city, to the doubt of many critics. But what does the public think?"

Alex held out her mic to a group of young people hanging outside of a bar. One man with a black mohawk drew his cigarette away from his mouth to speak. "You're asking if the crazy guy who stopped us all from having our eyes rot out of our skulls or whatever is more trustworthy than the shadowy government organization that admitted to a bunch of fascist bull****?"

A woman with stars shaved into her pink buzzcut stepped in front of him and leaned close to the microphone. "F*** the pigs."

Next Alex stood on a residential sidewalk with a middle-aged woman, who clutched her purse to her shoulder. "One of my daughter's friends died in the police chase with the Joker," she snapped. "As far as I'm concerned, everyone involved should rot."

Then outside a gym with a gray-haired man in a tracksuit. "I mean, a verifiable loony helps you out, and then you push him over the edge and start pointing fingers when everything goes sideways? That's just bad management. As for Doe, I dunno, I'm no shrink. Probably walk out if I see him at the bar."

A lanky young man with long hair sat next to Alex on the public library steps. "They tried to off him, no doubt," he said intently. "The city and the Agency both. That's what happens when you question authority." He made a slicing motion across his throat. "Agency shut down my dad's warehouse when they were looking for Riddler. Didn't care how it screwed up the business, threatened him when he pushed back. He's got a lawsuit, too. Better watch it."

A man wearing a suit and tie drank coffee at an outdoor cafe in the financial district. "Convenient. A number of complaints against the city are withdrawn, and a confessed murderer is released onto the streets. Thought the GMHA was about responsibility."

The screen cut back to the live Alex at the courthouse. "The controversy continues. Reporting live, this is Alex Sanchez for Channel Ten News."

At the anchor desk, Cheryl and Barry exchanged skeptical looks.

"Thanks, Alex. Controversy indeed," Barry said.

"Mm hm," Cheryl agreed, before her somber expression lightened. "After the break: which popular holiday gift was recalled as a danger to pets? Stay with us."

In the cave, Tiffany sighed and shut off the television feed, returning the main computer screen to the desktop. "Sure glad they got that wide range of perspectives," she said, crossing her arms and leaning against the edge of the console.

Bruce sat silently, eyes fixed on the keyboard, elbow propped on the armrest, cheek leaning on his fist. The frustration and trepidation of Gothamites, even when directed away from John, was in obvious contrast to John's point of view.

_"Bruce! Bruce. Bruce. Bruce Bruce Bruce! BRUCE."_

_"I can hear you, John."_

_"They're going to let me out!"_

_"What?!"_

_"Ha! That's what I said!"_

Tiffany interrupted his recollection. "Can you, like, say something? Instead of maintaining the broody silence you've had for the past few weeks?"

"What should I say?"

"That you realize John is impulsive and unpredictable, and now he's going to be exposed to a public who are projecting all kinds of ideas on him? That it's pretty obvious there will be inevitable fallout? That would be a start."

Bruce sat up straight. "He was able to control himself. He let Freeze go." (Though the official story was that John had simply failed to stop Freeze from escaping.)

"Letting a mad scientist escape is not the pinnacle of judgment," she said. (The GCPD found the boxtruck empty a few miles from the Plaza, under an overpass. Apparently Freeze had yet another form of transport waiting.) "But setting that part aside, it was still a single occasion, fresh from therapy and meds. Be real here."

"You don't think he deserves a chance?"

Tiffany pushed off the console. "Don't, Bruce," she snapped. "John and I are not the same, and suggesting we are is not fair to me or to him. I was grieving-- my father had just been murdered-- but in time I could manage it and see where I went wrong, and I'm doing my best to rectify it. John has a lifelong illness, and even you aren't sure what he's thinking half the time."

_"We can go to a movie! Could we sneak in hoagies?"_

"I've talked to him--"

"And he thinks he needs more real world experience to work out his issues," she said with exasperation. "You're fine treating this like... like it's an experiment, like what we saw last time isn't enough to draw conclusions?"

"This time is different," Bruce said. "The people around him will actually care about his welfare. He'll have an actual treatment plan and accountability."

"I hope to God he does," Tiffany said. "But he's not going to have twenty-four-hour supervision, Bruce, no matter how hard you try. At some point, he'll have only himself to rely on again, and there's no guarantee it'll end as nicely as it did with Freeze." She held up her scarred hand.

Bruce tightly gripped the armrests. "I don't know what you expect me to do."

She hesitated. "Maybe... maybe he would've stayed in there if you'd asked."

_"We'll talk about it next visit." A sound almost like a squeal. "We can make_ real _plans!"_

Bruce laughed coarsely. "Oh, it's that simple? 'Hey, buddy, why don't you hang out behind bars for several more years?'"

"You said the Board agreed to go ahead with your plan."

Bruce had asked Regina to use her remaining influence to commit the Wayne Enterprises Board to improving Arkham. It would demonstrate the company's good will to the city, as well as show Bruce's desire to right the wrongs of his family. They'd have to bring in other organizations and donors to dispel assertions that Bruce was up to no good like his father, but it was worth the scrutiny. Bruce should have pushed for it already.

But. "Even if Arkham became a five-star resort, John would have no freedom. He's not giving up that chance, and I can't..."

Tiffany settled back against the computer. "I just... Be honest, Bruce. When you first heard the deal, did you think it was the best move?"

"Two doctors determined--"

Frustrated, she broke in again. "Dr. Leland said he should stay. The doctor who actually knows him, who couldn't be persuaded by the city to get a slate of lawsuits off their plate."

"The doctor who contributed input to his plea deal." Probation, with six months at a halfway house that provided therapy. Continued therapy thereafter. Community service.

"When she knew she'd have no other say." Tiffany leaned forward. "And that's not what I asked."

He broke her gaze.

"I'm used to your silence subbing for admitting I'm right."

"Look." He splayed his fingers and clenched the arm rests again. "I may think that John could benefit from more time, but if he's going to be out, I can be that much more involved in helping him. I can keep an eye out for signs that he's not handling things well."

Her laugh was resigned. "Better than last time, huh?" She sighed. "It's good that you're helping him, it really is. You're in the best position to, and obviously I can't say you're not a good influence. But don't forget this doesn't all hang on you, especially if... things take a turn."

Bruce only had more silence to offer.

She smiled wryly. "If we get really worried about him, we can always bring out the Tetch file and recreate--"

"That better be a joke, and it's not funny," Bruce said sharply.

She rolled her eyes. "Sorry, I'll leave the inappropriate humor to your unofficial sidekick."

* * *

The hearing was at eight in the morning, so Jo met John in Arkham's visiting lounge at six to review. It was well outside visiting hours (and just within waking hours); the only other person in the room was an orderly standing out of range of attorney-client privilege.

John had barely gotten any sleep, but he was wide awake. He fiddled anxiously with the cuffs of his plain navy blue suit and frowned at his ugly paisley tie. He wanted something brighter, something more him, but Jo got Bruce to bring in something ho-hum. She said to save all the flamboyance, including makeup, for post release. No wonder nobody liked court.

She went through her reminders:

Don't smile. At anything.

If you get nervous, laugh on the inside.

Don't say anything if you're not directed to.

Address Judge Mills as "Judge" or "Your Honor," just like they do on TV.

When you make your statement, don't add any flourishes.

Don't. smile.

When she finished, she fixed her gaze on him. "This is very important, John. If Judge Mills thinks you aren't taking this seriously, he could throw a wrench in the plea."

As John understood it, his plea bargain was on the drastic side. He was pleading guilty to multiple counts of petty theft, and grand theft auto ("only as a misdemeanor, not a felony," Jo had said, and that sounded important, so John gave her a smile). His insanity plea prevailed for all crimes, violent or otherwise, committed during and after the Gotham Bridge encounter.

The court was accepting his time spent in Arkham as part of his sentence. Another part was paying restitution for the stuff he stole once he got a job (hahaha, a _job_ ) and performing community service (like assigned service, not the good deeds he'd attempted during vigilante practice). The last part was being a well-behaved, monitored citizen for a while, within city limits.

In exchange for all that, John would drop his suits against the city and the Agency. The city had tried to get Jo to stop pursuing cases for members of the GMHA, but she refused, which made sense. What did those have to do with him?

She checked her phone, and John saw it was almost seven o'clock. "They'll bring the van around soon," she said. "Any questions?"

John shook his head and tugged at his collar. "Nope. Everything seems squared away. A-okay." Except for a queasy feeling. Why did he eat that breakfast bar she gave him?

A rapping sounded at the head of the room, and there was Bruce with his fist poised at the doorframe. "Am I interrupting?"

"Never!" John exclaimed, perking up.

Bruce walked over. He wore a smart black suit under his pewter wool coat, which hung open and showed the blue knit scarf looped around his neck.

"What lovely taste in accessories you have," John said. A little twist of pleasure wrung out the queasiness.

Bruce returned his smile, and Jo got up. "You two chat," she said. Ever the busy bee, she moved her things a couple tables away to work.

As Bruce sat down, John said, "I thought you were going to meet us at the courthouse."

"Well, I wasn't getting much sleep anyway." Bruce smirked wryly.

"I guess not," John chuckled. "You're not the only one."

"Nerves?" When John nodded, Bruce reached into an inside pocket in his coat. "Maybe this can distract you."

He pulled out a phone, and John grabbed it with an excited gasp. The case was striped with pink, purple, and white, and it was much sturdier than the cheap plastic one John had found at a corner store for his first phone. And this phone model was probably leagues beyond that one.

"It's got the highest quality camera available," Bruce said, as if confirming John's thoughts. "It's already linked to cloud storage, and you have unlimited data. All cost on me, of course."

John wiped at his eyes with his knuckles. "Gosh, Bruce, it's perfect." He grinned suddenly. "Or it will be, with the perfect background photo! We'll get one tomorrow!"

Tomorrow at their celebration dinner, after John settled in at the halfway house (a private one, John's stay also Bruce-funded). By then, he could wear what he wanted and look how he wanted. He could eat what he wanted, go where he wanted, read what he wanted, watch what he wanted... All those choices back in his hands. The nausea crept up again.

"I know you can't have it officially yet," Bruce was saying, "but I thought... Are you okay?"

John pushed the phone back across the table. "Yeah. The butterflies are persistent, you know?" He laughed weakly.

"Sure." Bruce tucked the phone away. "I'd be surprised if you weren't nervous."

"Is Waller counting on me screwing this up and getting sent to Blackgate?" John asked suddenly.

Bruce's eyes widened a fraction before he recovered. "What does it matter--"

"There's no way you didn't call her." Probably used that growling timber, too.

"Well, it was..." Bruce leaned forward on the table, fingers weaving together. "I was surprised that the Agency agreed to everything. I wanted to figure out if she was up to anything."

"And?"

"We're creeping up on two years. The Agency wants to move on, refocus resources."

"Because..." John gestured in a circular motion, but Bruce didn't finish. "Waller thinks I can't handle freedom and I'll lose it again. Why else would she let everything go?"

Bruce got up and moved his chair to John's side. "It doesn't matter what she thinks," he said as he sat again. "This is your life. All your work is for you."

"Yeah, sure, but..." John studied his hands lying in his lap, his scarred palm.

Bruce bumped their shoulders. "But I guess it can't hurt to also want to prove her wrong again," he said with a reassuring smile.

John looked at him, and this was the closest he'd been to those eyes in months, as close as when he'd woken up with his back on hard gravel.

Bruce had been looking down on him, the brilliance of the sun creating a halo around the cowl's silhouette, the lenses glowing softly in that shadow. All that light, and for once it was so quiet, _felt_ quiet. And it felt hot, his skin growing damp under the gloved palm on his neck, and he thought of cool blue, closer than the sky, hidden but in reach.

Lifting his hand triggered the crank in his brain, and he remembered where he was, and he fell from clarity into a joke.

Sort of like now, when he could lift his hand and grab Bruce's or touch his knee or even hold his face, all kinds of plain-as-day signals he'd seen on TV.

Instead he bumped their shoulders again and said, "Let's hope I at least hurt her feelings."

Bruce let out a light snort, which would not be his reaction if John said what he wanted to hurt _at most_ when it came to Waller.

"We're ready to go," called a familiar voice. Marco had appeared at the head of the room.

Jo restuffed her laptop bag and got up. "Okay, gentlemen," she said to Bruce and John. "We're off."

"I'll see you there," Bruce said, squeezing John's shoulder.

He left as the rest of them got ready in the lobby. John wished they could all go together, but since he was technically still in custody, being escorted out in public was still a big to-do. A police officer had arrived to accompany them, and he put John in handcuffs (metal ones, hands at his front). In the van, John and Jo took the rear bench seat, and the officer sat in the middle one, on the end closest to the sliding door. Marco drove.

Getting from Arkham to the courthouse took about twenty minutes. Another of Jo's rules was that John shouldn't talk about his case once they left, especially when he was on his own in the holding cell, but even in front of this single policeman. She'd seen an errant word travel fast enough to knock court deals askew. But his brain couldn't conjure anything else to talk about, so he didn't talk at all, so he was stuck in his head, thinking about his case, which he couldn't talk about--

"Where are you and Bruce going to eat tomorrow?" Jo suddenly asked.

John blinked at her. For once her bags were still all packed in her lap, her arms resting on them. He had her complete focus.

"I don't know," he said. "He'll probably pick some ritzy place." And pay for some private room so the known loony toon wouldn't offend the other patrons.

She rolled her eyes. "If he says Dorsia, that's a flat no." Her eyebrows quirked up as she noted the neighborhood. "Look, we're in Little Italy, and..." She pointed at a side street as they passed it. "Down Casali there's a little place called Amore. You should give it a try." As she lowered her hand, she added, "Dad knows the owners."

John shot her a knowing smile. "Ah, shunting a wealthy customer to friends, eh?"

"No, it's a legitimately good place, unlike a lot of the trendy spots." She raised an eyebrow. "Plus it's hard to tell how nervous you are about going out in public."

It was definitely a pickle. Before, people only got upset with him if he said or did something wrong or "weird," but now just the sight of him could set people off. But what could he do? He'd long decided he wouldn't spend his freedom hiding.

Though, yeah, he didn't want to spend all of it being hassled either.

"What coffee places do you know that make those colorful swirly drinks?" he asked.

When the courthouse came in sight, Jo was in the middle of praising a bagel place near her office, and she trailed off. The columned building's steps, spanning half the block, were obscured by a large crowd. The strongest presence was the protesters, both for John and against him, judging by the signs waving over everyone's heads. On the sidewalks, reporters were framed by their cameramen. Police officers had arranged themselves around the crowd and at the courtroom entrances. Onlookers lingered across the street.

John thought of the letters he got in Arkham. The volume was incredible, but he wasn't sure what to make of the content. All these people had never even met him; how could they be so riled up?

Now was not an opportunity to ask. The van was headed to the more secure, gated back entrance, where prisoners were checked in. More press waited outside the gate, apparently just to get a shot of the Arkham van rolling in. He heard a chorus of overlapping questions when he got out, but the officer rushed him inside.

John's last experience at the courthouse had been a blur, what with the emotional breakdown and the sudden drug regimen. He'd had just the vague knowledge he was handcuffed and dragged from here to there, by officers or orderlies or both.

This time... wasn't much clearer. The circumstances may have been unbelievably better, and he may have been lucid, but he was starting to think this couldn't possibly be real. He looked for signs, irregularities, that would reveal he was caught in a dream or delusion, but the pat-down felt solid ( _easy up the inseam, Romeo_ ). The light reflected off the smooth floor at the right angles, the smell of black coffee wafted from the cups on the table next to the holding area door, and the comments and grumbles from all the officers were sharp with disdain. In his cell, the chill of the metal bench bled through his pants, but it faded as expected. His heartbeat sped up, and he did his exercises until it was sure and steady.

When the cell gate opened again, he got to his feet almost reflexively. The officer escorted him through one of the many wooden doors in the holding area, and it opened right into the courtroom. The immediacy disoriented him again, but in the gallery right behind his and Jo's table, he saw Bruce sitting next to Frank and Willie. John focused on him as he was led to his chair-- _don't smile, don't smile_ \-- and Bruce held his gaze. John had to look away after the cuffs were removed, and he sat.

He used Bruce's presence as a tether to keep his cool while he concentrated on Jo's instructions. Do not anger the grumpy robed man. Stand when he enters, like the bailiff says, then sit still. John kept his fidgeting under the table, twiddling his thumbs, rubbing his palms together. He didn't turn around for reassurance, as much as he wanted to. He looked at the judge, even if he only half-heard what was being said in the room.

Jo coughed quietly before she stood again, and John hurriedly got out of his seat. Judge Mills asked him the expected questions-- his plea for the different counts, did he understand he was giving up the right to a jury trial, was he forced into accepting the deal-- and John answered with no elaboration, though he literally bit his own tongue once or twice. (Would a jury of his peers have been restricted to the Arkham set?)

The judge adjusted his glasses and glanced down at some papers. "Due to the controversial nature of this hearing, I have asked Mr. Doe to make a statement before I enter my decision on the plea. Mr. Doe."

"Asked," as if it had just been a request. Jo had said that despite the city wanting to make this problem go away, Mills wanted to know that John understood the impact of what had happened last year.

"What's important is sincerity, John," Dr. Leland had said.

Not in a therapy session, of course, since the Lead Psychiatrist had decided it was best for John and Leland to have some distance. (John had reacted well-- in that no one got hurt. How would that happen if he refused to leave his room for fourteen-or-so hours straight?) So Leland had spent the past six months treating her other patients, including Jervis Tetch.

Shortly after Tetch was admitted, Arkham staff determined that he'd backslid in his self care, including taking his medication. Plus blood tests showed he had some moderate mercury poisoning, supported by charred evidence from the tea party. It seemed he'd decided to do what came naturally to a hatter and make hats the old-fashioned way: with unsafe chemicals. It didn't take long to get the mercury out of his system, but Leland was having a heck of a time getting Tetchy to stay in reality. Personally, John found playing chess with him a lot more engaging when he was having a wonderland-ful day.

But anyway, John had to rely on his free-range privileges to catch Leland in her office when he wanted to chat.

"Dr. Moron says I need to show remorse to the judge," he'd said, hunched over on her couch.

"You know it's Monroe," Leland had chided, but she got right on topic, telling him to be sincere. She continued, "Don't try to force emotion. Think about what you've discussed in therapy and convey what you've learned."

"Easier said than done."

"Most tasks are, aren't they?" She paused, and he knew what was coming. "You can always reconsider. I know how hard it would be to shut this deal down--"

"You don't," he said brusquely.

She'd considered him for a moment, then nodded. "I don't. But I am concerned for you. The city is not acting in your best interest."

"That's okay," he'd said. "I can handle that part." He switched to a smile, because even if they'd been over this before, he still liked her straightforwardness.

"John..." In Leland's hesitation was a sad stillness, like he'd seen in that basement. But of course, she girded herself, and the look vanished under steeled patience. She'd reached out and held him by the arms. "There will be times when it's hard," she said, "but it's in you to do this."

Those words ran in a loop in his mind as he cleared his throat before the judge.

Reading a statement could come across as insincere, Jo said, so John worked from his memory of their practice. He had to avoid rambling, had to bypass any funny thoughts that came to mind. Just facts. He understood that he had killed people, that he hurt their loved ones. He was sorry. (Was he sorry? The deaths were unfortunate. He hadn't planned them. He didn't want to do it again. That seemed sorry.) He knew that he could never fix what happened, but he could be the kind of person who would not break like that again. He had a plan and he had people to help him. Oh, and he also wouldn't steal more things, of course.

Judge Mills' stare lingered, then he nodded. He read off the terms of the plea that Jo (with consultation from Bruce's lawyers) had negotiated with the city. He accepted them.

And after some parting words, the hearing ended.

That was it. One more night at Arkham. Then off to the halfway house.

Frank and Willy grabbed and shook John's hand and congratulated him. Bruce waited with a pleased smile, and he laughed when John threw his arms over the wooden railing to grab him.

"You're all set," Bruce said, returning the hug.

"I guess so!" John said as he pulled back. He looked up at Bruce, at his eyes, and couldn't stifle a laugh, because of course John was in love with him, had been in love for a long time.

But it just hadn't been _that_ obvious. Hearts all across Gotham palpitated at the sight of those eyes, and that jaw, and those shoulders, and the whole unending list of infatuating features. The status and wealth were no small thing either, even if they were inherited from a covert mobster.

And sure, John had seen more than that even from afar, had detected a submerged aggression with no explicit outlet, knew that something was going on away from the cameras and galas and board meetings. Then he'd figured out the truth that explained everything: Bruce spent his nights coping with his childhood loss by protecting the vulnerable and battling the predatory, often risking his life.

And when such a person cared about John-- took valuable time to visit him, gave him thoughtful gifts, talked to him about nonsense and important matters-- he couldn't help but feel special, chosen even.

Alright, maybe he should've noticed at least a little sooner that he was in love.

Not that it mattered.

It was amazing enough that Bruce was his closest friend. A romantic relationship ratcheted up the level of trust necessary between two people, and Bruce couldn't trust John. 

Oh, Bruce thought he could, despite everything, because he was still that messed up guy who called John his friend even when they were broken and bleeding together at Axis. Bruce had decided that John's illness called for a radical idea of "fairness," that he should just set aside the times John nearly killed him, whether unintentionally or very intentionally, not to mention how John abandoned him with a bomb.

So John was not going to dwell on stomach-fluttering ideas. The bad things he'd already done had hurt Bruce enough (though of course Bruce downplayed it). As well as John wanted to do on the outside, he knew he was not going to reach Bruce's level of goodness. John's limitations combined with a more intimate relationship would inevitably hurt Bruce even worse.

But that point was moot anyway. Friendship was one thing; why would Bruce-- Bruce _Wayne_ , the _Batman_ \-- even entertain the idea of...

No, friendship was fine-- was great! John certainly wasn't going to end that. That's probably what Bruce would do, if their roles were reversed, but John was more selfish than that. Instead, he just put up a boundary, one that was easy to enforce. They were friends before, and they were friends now. Nothing had really changed!

Bruce waved his hand in front of John's face, and John realized how long he must've been staring. "Are you al--"

"Fine!" John exclaimed. "Just overwhelmed!"

Jo had arranged it so John would walk out of the courthouse without cuffs, a free man despite the final night in captivity. But that meant Marco was pulling the van out front. In the long foyer, John could see the bustling crowd outside the glass doors. People weren't allowed to take pictures in the courthouse, so they waited just outside for their prime shot.

Bruce was at his side again. "I'll help you out to the van and do some press work," he said. "And then I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Jo went first to clear the way, and the officer brought up the rear. Bruce wrapped an arm around John's shoulders, and they pushed through the cacophony of questions, shouts, and chanting. Bruce's free hand deterred the microphones, cameras, and phones thrust toward John's face. John's laughter felt louder than it sounded, carried away in the chaos.

The crowd pressed in so insistently that Bruce pulled the van door shut right after John and the others climbed in. Then he stood outside the back window, a still figure in the muffled noise, and lifted his hand in goodbye. John waved back.

There had been no time for a pinky swear or a high five or a handshake, but that was okay. They were bound by more than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue [END CREDITS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Hx6W0tTpVA)!
> 
> A massive THANK YOU to everyone who followed this little adventure in getting John the heck out of Arkham and doing some stage setting for his freedom. If you enjoyed this fic, I hope you will read the eventual batjokier sequel. After I, like, finish planning it and everything.
> 
> Also, if you liked this, please leave a comment! Or if you were meh about it. Or even if you hated it, considering nothing is stopping you.


End file.
